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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 

MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


L 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Arcinive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

iVIierosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/aspirationsotherOOburnrich 


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ASPIRATIONS 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


By  JULIA  M.  BURNETT 


REDONDO  BEACH 

CALIFORNIA 

1907 


*PreMof 

Tieflex  Publishing  Co. 

Tltdondo,  Cal 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

INTRODUCTION    vii 

ASPIRATIONS 1 

A  WEDDING  DAY  SONG 4 

BERTIE     5 

OUR  BABY  IN  THE  COUNTRY 7 

MY  LITTLE   LABORER 11 

MY   TWO   SONS 14 

MY    LOT 17 

LOOKING  OVER 19 

CHARLIE 22 

PAPA'S  GARDEN    24 

"TILL  DEATH" 27 

THE  SLEEP  OP  SORROW 29 

LOVE'S  APPEAL 30 

TO  A  CHILD'S  PICTURE 32 

AN  AUTUMN  CAROL 34 


M313944 


iv  Contents. 

PAGE. 

THE  WRECK  OF  THE  ATLANTIC 36 

MY  JEWELS 37 

NEIGHBOR   WILLIE 39 

CHARLIE  BY   THE   SEA 42 

SONNET — To  L.   P 46 

RECEIPT  FOR  PUFFS 47 

MRS.  BROWNING 49 

A  VISION 50 

KINSHIP 53 

A    SHADOW 55 

SEA-WEED 57 

COMPENSATION 59 

UNAPPRECIATED 61 

TO    CHATTIE 62 

SONNETS  BY  THE  SEA 64 

WATCHING   AND   WAITING 66 

"HE  SHALL  GIVE  HIS  ANGELS  CHARGE 

CONCERNING   THEE" 68 

THE    REGATTA 69 

THE  CRYSTAL  WEDDING 71 

THE  CLEANING  OF  THE  IVY 74 


Contents. 


PAGE. 

GREETING  TO  A  SOUTHERN  BRIDE 77 

ROSES  AND  CYPRESS 79 

UNTIMELY 81 

LEFT  PROM  THE  WRECK 83 

IN  TWO   WORLDS 86 

REMEMBRANCE 88 

A  CURL 90 

ANOTHER  WAY 92 

HEART  SEARCHINGS 96 

IN   MEMORIAM 99 

A  SEPTENNIAL  SONNET 101 

JOSEPH   JEFFERSON 102 

THE  LAST  SNOW  MAN 105 

THE  ANGEL'S  GIFT 107 

MY  MOTHER  CHURCH Ill 

AN  EASTERN  LEGEND 112 

APRIL  SNOW 114 

EASTER    115 

TO   MAY 117 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  SONG 118 


vi  Contents. 

PAGE. 

WITH  A  BUNCH  OF  ROSES 119 

TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND 120 

TO  MRS.   AUGUSTUS  JORDAN 121 

TO  MAT  BELLE  CHIPP 123 

LIFE  AND   DEATH 125 

A   WINTER    BLOSSOM 130 

LOVE'S   INDIAN   SUMMER 132 

A    SOLILOQUY 137 

TO  MRS.   RHODES 139 

TO  GALEN  CLARK 140 


INTRODUCTION 

For  some  years  it  had  been  my  mother's  intention, 
at  my  earnest  request,'  to  gather  together  her  poems 
for  publication  in  book  form.  She  had  already  com- 
menced this  work  when  overtaken  by  her  last  ill- 
ness, and  I  have  now  picked  it  up  where  she 
left  it,  and  have  prepared  this  little  volume  as  a 
"legacy  of  rhyme"  to  those  who  loved  her  and  whom 
she  loved. 

In  arranging  the  poems  I  have  placed  "Aspira- 
tions" first  because  it  seems  to  me  to  strike  the 
keynote  for  the  whole  book,  and  in  fact  for  her 
entire  life.  The  others  I  have  tried  to  place,  as 
nearly  as  possible,  in  the  order  in  which  they 
were  written,  and  to  include  only  those  which  she 
considered  of  permanent  value,  or  which  were  con- 
nected with  events  or  persons  held  in  fond  remem- 
brance. I  have  also  included  notes  and  explanations 
from  her  scrap-book  which  give  the  poems  an  added 
interest,  and  at  times  afford  an  insight  into  her  life 


viii  Introduction. 

at  a  period  of  great  grief  and  stress  and  struggle — a 
period  on  which  I  do  not  like  to  dwell  except  to 
recall  those  whose  love  and  friendship  and  helping 
hands  smoothed  some  of  the  rough  places,  and  who 
are  so  beautifully  referred  to  in  the  poem  entitled 
''He  Will  Give  His  Angels  Charge  Concerning 
Thee."  These  loving  hearts  and  loyal  souls  were 
always  remembered  by  my  mother  with  the  deepest 
affection,  and  will  ever  claim  my  undying  gratitude. 

Most  of  the  poems  in  this  volume  were  published, 
at  about  the  time  they  were  written,  in  Harper's 
Magazine,  Scribner'' s  Magazine,  Christian  Union, 
Christiafi  at  Work,  Hearth  and  Home,  Baldwin's 
Monthly,  New  York  Graphic,  and  other  periodicals. 
Many  of  them  were  widely  copied  in  the  daily  press 
and  received  high  praise  from  such  editors  and  crit- 
ics as  Dr.  J.  G.  Holland,  Henry  M.  Alden,  Oliver 
Johnson,  William  Winter,  and  others.  Aside  from 
their  delicacy  of  sentiment  and  true  poetic  expres- 
sion, they  all  bear  evidence  of  having  been  written 
from  the  heart,  and  they  seem  to  have  reached  the 
great  heart  of  the  public.  They  were  in  too  sad  a 
strain  ever  to  attain  great  popularity,  but  in  those 
who  had  suffered  deeply  they  found  a  responsive 


Introduction.  ix 

chord,  and  she  received  many  letters  from  people 
to  whom  they  had  brought  hope  and  comfort.  One 
thing  is  very  noticeable  in  all  the  poems — and  it  was 
very  characteristic  of  her — that  even  in  her  deepest 
sorrow  there  was  always  a  note  of  hope  and  faith,  a 
determination  to  look  upward,  and  an  abiding  belief 
in  Divine  Love  and  the  absolute  reality  of  the 
future  life. 

JUI.IA  Maria  Chipp  was  born  in  Kingston,  New 
York,  May  9,  1840.  Her  parents,  Charles  Winans 
Chipp  and  Eleanora  Deyo  Chipp,  both  died  during 
her  infancy,  leaving  four  small  children  to  the  care 
of  relatives.  My  mother  was  adopted  by  an  uncle, 
Warren  Chipp,  also  of  Kingston,  and  brought  up  as 
one  of  his  children,  his  devoted  wife  tenderly  taking 
the  place  of  the  mother  the  little  orphan  had  never 
known. 

Her  girlhood  at  "Brookside"  was  a  happy  one,  and 
there  she  met  my  father,  James  Gilbert  Burnett,  and 
they  were  married  on  June  7,  1865.  Although  he 
was  twenty  years  her  senior,  the  union  proved  to  be 
an  ideal  one,  and  their  short  married  life  of  five  years 
was    marked    by    complete    and    perfect  happiness. 


X  Introduction. 

Never  have  I  read  words  of  such  tender  love  and 
devotion  as  in  her  journal,  and  in  their  letters  to 
each  other  during  brief  periods  of  separation.  The 
only  cloud  upon  their  happiness  was  the  death  of 
their  first  child  when  little  more  than  a  year  old,  but 
this  only  served  to  draw  them  closer  together,  if 
such  a  thing  were  possible. 

Three  children  were  born  to  them — Chauncey 
Linderman,  born  April  26,  1866,  died  September  15, 
1867;  James  Gilbert,  born  August  5,  1868,  died 
April  20,  1895;  and  Charles  Howard,  born  August 
11,  1870. 

My  father  was  an  actor  and  manager  of  ability 
and  reputation,  in  the  old  days  of  stock  companies. 
He  played  leading  parts  with  Edwin  Forrest  and 
other  notable  stars  of  that  day,  and  was  manager,  at 
different  times,  of  theatres  in  New  York,  Chicago 
and  St.  Louis.  His  friends  and  contemporaries 
were  Joseph  Jefferson,  E.  A.  Sothern,  W.  J.  Flor- 
ence, Charles  W.  Couldock,  J.  H.  Stoddart,  John  T. 
Raymond,  and  many  others  long  since  passed  away. 
He  was  stage  manager  of  Laura  Keene's  theatre  in 
New  York  at  the  time  both  Jefferson  and  Sothern 
made  their  first  great  hits  there,  and  it  was  he  who 


Introduction.  xi 

cast  Sothern  for  the  part  of  Lord  Dundreary  in 
Our  American  Cousin,  in  which  he  became  famous. 
Sothern  was  at  first  deeply  offended  at  having  to 
play  the  part,  and  it  was  not  until  after  he  had 
scored  such  a  triumph  in  it  that  he  publicly  apolo- 
gized for  not  having  trusted  more  fully  to  my 
father's  'judgment. 

Strangely  enough,  my  mother  was  never  inside  of 
a  theatre  until  after  her  marriage,  and  then  only  as 
a  spectator. 

My  father  died  suddenly  March  19,  1870,  leaving 
my  mother  pitiably  crushed  and  helpless.  Soon 
after  his  death  the  small  means  he  had  left  were 
swept  away  in  ill-advised  investments,  and  from 
having  been  sheltered  and  protected  at  every  point 
from  life's  struggles,  she  was  suddenly  forced  to 
face  the  world  and  wrest  from  it  a  livelihood  for 
herself  and  her  two  babies.  In  those  days  women 
had  no  place  in  business,  and  there  was  little  that 
a  woman  of  culture  and  refinement  could  do  to  earn 
money. 

It  was  then  that  she  commenced  to  turn  her  "gift 
of  song"  to  account,  and  to  timidly  offer  for  publi- 
cation   the    verses    which    had    been    written    for 


xii  Introduction. 

my  father's  pleasure,  and  those  others  which  later 
had  been  the  involuntary  cry  of  a  broken  heart. 
Meeting  with  success,  she  followed  it  up  with  other 
poems,  short  stories,  newspaper  correspondence  and 
contributions  to  the  children's  columns  of  various 
periodicals.  She  also  organized  classes  for  the 
study  of  Shakespeare,  Browning  and  other  English 
poets,  taught  elocution,  and  gave  very  successful 
dramatic  readings.  The  returns  from  work  of  this 
kind  are  usually  meagre  and  uncertain,  and  it  speaks 
well  for  her  success  that  she  was  able  to  support 
herself  and  children  in  this  way  for  ten  long  years. 

During  a  part  of  this  time  it  was  my  privilege  to 
help  her,  both  as  a  child  elocutionist  and  also  by 
playing  the  part  of  Little  Hendrik  in  Rip  Van 
Wmkle,  for  several  seasons,  with  Joseph  Jefferson. 
It  was  a  source  of  great  regret  to  my  mother  that 
I  should  be  called  to  her  assistance  as  a  breadwinner 
at  the  early  age  of  six  years,  but  upon  expressing 
this  feeling  one  day  to  Joaquin  Miller,  the  poet,  he 
gave  her  great  comfort  by  saying,  "Madam,  would 
you  deprive  him  of  one  of  the  sweetest  memories 
he  will  have  when  he  is  a  man?" 

During  these  years  we  lived  in  New  York  City; 


Introduction.  xiii 

Bath,  Long  Island  (now  Bensonhurst) ;  Newark, 
New  Jersey,  and  West  Haven,  Connecticut;  and  in 
all  these  places  my  mother  made  many  warm  friend- 
ships which  endured  through  life. 

In  1882  she  obtained  a  position  in  the  Patent 
Office  at  Washington,  and  was  subsequently  pro- 
moted, through  the  personal  kindness  of  President 
Arthur,  to  the  duties  of  Assistant  Librarian  of  the 
Department  of  the  Interior.  This  work  was  pleas- 
ant, congenial  and  remunerative,  and  she  held  the 
office  for  about  six  years,  while  my  brother  and  I 
were  going  to  school  and  fitting  ourselves  to  assume 
the  burden  of  the  family  support.  At  last  came 
the  proud  day  in  1889 — the  proudest  of  our  lives — 
when  we  were  able  to  assume  that  burden,  and  my 
mother  retired  from  office,  followed  by  the  congratu- 
lations and  good  wishes  of  every  official  and 
employe  of  the  Department. 

Those  were  happy  days  in  Washington  for  all  of 
us,  and  never  was  there  a  closer  tie  between  mother 
and  sons  than  existed  between  us  then  and  always. 

Then  came  my  brother's  brief  but  brilliant  career 
at  the  bar,  his  long  illness,  the  alternate  hope  and 
fear,  and  finally  his  lingering  death  in  1895,  which 


xiv  Introduction. 

left  my  mother  crushed  and  broken  and  over- 
whelmed under  thfe  third  great  sorrow  of  her  life. 
From  this  blow  she  never  fully  recovered,  and  soon 
was  forced  to  face  another  grief  and  anxiety  in  the 
uncertain  condition  of  my  own  health,  which  finally 
compelled  us,  in  1901,  to  seek  a  change  of  climate  in 
the  west.  Here  I  regained  my  health,  and  here  she 
passed  several  happy  years,  keenly  enjoying  our 
out-of-door  life  and  nature  studies,  and  our  travels 
to  Mexico,  the  Grand  Canyon,  Yosemite  Valley, 
Alaska,  and  other  scenes  of  beauty  and  interest.  It 
is  a  source  of  unspeakable  satisfaction  to  me — the 
silver  lining  to  the  cloud  of  ill  health  that  hung  over 
me  so  long — that  I  was  able  to  make  these  last  years 
of  her  life  happy  and  peaceful,  and  that  when  we 
were  finally  parted,  on  June  21,  1905,  it  was  not  she 
who  was  called  upon  to  bear  the  pain  and  grief  and 
desolation  of  being  left  behind. 

I  wish  I  could  here  place  on  record  an  adequate 
appreciation  of  the  wonderful  beauty  of  my  mother's 
character.  I  have  never  known  a  soul  of  such  pure 
ideals,  such  lofty  standards,  such  wonderful  courage, 
or  such  complete  unselfishness.    I  have  never  known 


Introduction.  xv 

a  more  sincere  or  diligent  seeker  after  truth,  or  a 
firmer  believer  in  Divine  Love,  and  that  good  is  to 
be  found  in  all  things.  I  have  never  known  a  nature 
so  delicately  sensitive  and  sympathetic,  or  one  so 
ready  to  share  the  burdens  and  griefs  of  others.  I 
have  never  known  a  more  youthful  spirit,  a  keener 
capacity  for  enjoyment,  a  more  abundant  energy,  a 
greater  love  of  nature,  or  a  deeper  compassion  for  all 
suffering  creatures.  I  have  never  known  —  and 
never  hope  to  know  again  in  this  world — such  deep 
and  pure  and  tender  love,  such  absolute  trust  and 
confidence,  and  such  complete  sympathy  and  under- 
standing, as  existed  between  us  without  break  or 
shadow  or  variation  for  nearly  thirty-five  years. 

Such  love  can  never  die,  and  though  we  may  be 
separated  for  a  time  by  the  change  called  Death,  I 
know  well  that  she  is  living  a  life  even  more 
real  and  full  and  vital  than  the  one  she  lived  here, 
that  she  is  reunited  to  the  dear  ones  she  mourned  so 
long,  and  that  they  are  "watching  and  waiting"  to 
welcome  me  to  that  happy  home  where  we  will  all  be 
together  once  more,  in  God's  appointed  time. 

Redondo  Beach, 
Pecember,  1907, 


ASPIRATIONS 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


ASPIRATIONS. 

r\  SPIRIT  of  wisdom  !    O  spirit  of  light ! 
^^       Spirit  of  mystery,  round  me,  above, 
That  I  long  for  by  day,  that  I  dream  of  by  night. 
Bright  spirit  of  beauty !   Sweet  spirit  of  love  ! 

You  hide  in  the  dewy  green  grass  at  my  feet. 
In  daisy  and  buttercup,  lily  and  rose; 

You  wave  your  fair  hands  from  yon  billowy  wheat ; 
You  smile  from  the  heights  where  the  tall  cedar 
'  grows.     . 

You  whisper,  you  touch  me ;  I  turn  at  your  call. 
To  behold  and  to  worship,  but,  lo !  you  are  gone ; 

I  hear  in  the  distance  a  far  echo  fall. 

And  catch  but  the  hem  of  your  garment  alone. 

You  signal  and  beckon  me,  wooing  me  on 

From  the  cloud-palace  gates  of  a  sunsetting  sky ; 

You  steal  through  my  chamber,  where  weary,  alone, 
On  my  thought-haunted  pillow  I  sleeplessly  lie. 


[1] 


2  Aspirations. 

You  look  down  from  the  stars,  you  look  up  from 
the  sea, 

You  ride  on  the  storm,  in  the  zephyr  you  sigh ; 
The  song  of  the  bird  and  the  hum  of  the  bee 

Your  voice's  sweet  echo,  your  step  passing  by. 

On  the  wave  of  some  melody  carried  afar, 
To  your  holy  of  holies  I  seem  to  have  come, 

Yet  no  nearer  to  you  than  is  yon  northern  star 

To  the   night-wearied  traveller  it  guides  to  his 
home. 

You  speak  to  my  soul  in  great  thoughts  that  breathe ; 

I  bow  down  before  you  with  rapture  that  burns ; 
But,  lo !  in  my  heart  a  keen  sword  you  ensheathe. 

On  my  brow  at  your  feet  leave  a  crown  of  sharp 
thorns. 

You  look  into  mine  from  an  eye's  soft  caress. 

You  whisper  to  mine  from  hearts  where  I  cling; 

You  call  me,  elude  me,  you  torture,  you  bless, 
O  mighty,  mysterious,  tyrannous  King! 

I  stretch  out  my  hands  to  you,  cry  and  entreat. 
Rising  up  from  the  dust,  follow  on  at  your  call, 

Ever  striving  and  struggling,  till,  low  at  your  feet, 
Starving,  thirsting,  and  yet  never  hopeless,  I  fall. 


Aspirations.  3 

From  Nature  without  and  from  spirit  within 

Your  messengers  speak  to  my  tempest-tossed  soul ; 

But  they  mock  at  my  woe  while  they're  bidding 
me  win 
That  far,  unattained,  unattainable  goal. 

Ah,  tell  me  that  only  'tis  here  unattained. 

Here  in  vain  that  I  call  to  you,  seek  and  not  find ; 

That  'tis  only  while  in  this  earth-prison  enchained 
I  am  halt,  sick,  and  maimed, — I  am  deaf,  dumb, 
and  blind ! 

Ah,  tell  me  that,  freed  from  this  bondage  of  clay. 
Far  brighter  than  stars  all  these  sweet  hopes  shall 
shine, 

I  shall  find  you  and  hold  you  forever  and  aye, 
O  spirit  immortal !  O  spirit  divine  ! 


A  WEDDING  DAY  SONG. 

TO  MY   HUSBAND. 

/^^OME  again  the  happy  dawning 
^*-^  Of  earth's  brightest  day  for  me, 
Counterpart  of  that  blest  morning 
That  pledged  heart  and  hand  to  thee! 

Sweet  with  scent  of  June's  first  roses, 
Fresh  with  night's  benignant  showers, 
In  my  heart  that  day  reposes 
Crowned  with  Memory's  fadeless  flowers. 

For  she  brought  to  me  the  treasure 
Of  a  love  vouchsafed  to  few, 
Measureless  beyond  all  measure. 
Tender,  patient,  fond  and  true! 

Brought  me  strength  to  guard  my  weakness, 
Wisdom,  to  direct  my  way. 
Filled  my  life  to  full  completeness. 
Generous,  blessed,  happy  day ! 


[4] 


Bertie. 

Balmiest  zephyrs  aye  caress  her! 
Future  years  still  bring  her  praise  ! 
True  hearts  welcome,  love  and  bless  her ! 
Hail  her  ever  day  of  days! 

New  York,  June  7,  1866. 


BERTIE. 

A^OME  to  me  my  new-found  treasure, 
^^^  Let  me  clasp  you  to  my  breast, 
To  the  heart  not  ceased  its  aching 
For  the  darling  gone  to  rest. 

Baby,  did  your  angel  brother 
In  that  world  from  whence  you  come, 
Bid  you  bring  new  light  and  gladness 
To  this  desolated  home  ? 

Did  your  little  kindred  spirits 
Mingle  with  each  other  there, 
Till  your  earthly  form  and  features 
Now  the  same  dear  image  bear? 


6  Bertie. 

Tell  me,  did  you  catch  the  sweetness 
Of  his  baby  looks  and  tone, 
Of  his  winning  ways  and  graces? 
Baby,  are  these  too  your  own? 

And  as  days  and  months  go  by  us 
Will  you  the  sweet  gifts  retain, 
Till  we  almost  think  our  darling 
Moves  and  lives  with  us  again? 

Shall  we  see  the  dainty  figure. 
Soft  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair? 
Shall  we  hear  his  lisping  prattle, 
See  sweet  looks  he  used  to  wear? 

Oh,  I  hold  you  close  and  closer. 
Thinking  what  you  yet  may  be. 
Likeness  of  my  angel  first-born 
Sent  to  bless  and  comfort  me ! 

New  York,  August,  1868, 


OUR  BABY  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

PASSAGE  FROM  A  LETTER  IN  RHYME  TO  MY  HUSBAND 
WHEN  BERTIE  WAS  A  YEAR  OLD. 

J    TE  is  out  every  day,  and  the  fresh  country  air 

Has  ruddied  his  cheek  with  the  kiss  it  leaves 
there, 
While  the  sunbeams  have  tangled  themselves  in  his 

hair. 
Not  a  child  in  the  village  but  knows  him  by  name, 
Not  a  dog  or  a  cow  but  his  friendship  may  claim; 
He  has  room  in  his  dear  little  heart  for  each  one, 
And  many  will  miss  his  sweet  face  when  we're  gone. 
He  is  gay  as  a  bird,  and  from  morning  till  night 
Of  mischief  as  full  as  the  day's  full  of  light, 
Yet  perpetrates  all  with  an  archness  so  winning 
We  love  him  the  better  for  all  his  sweet  sinning. 


[7] 


8  Our  Baby  in  the  Country. 

He  climbs  like  a  monkey.    I  call  out,  "Take  care !" 
Before  I  have  spoken  he  is  up  on  a  chair, 
And  saucily  echoes  my  warning,  "Tate  ta-are !" 
He  seizes  my  work-box,  upsetting  it  all ; 
Takes  my  tapes  for  his  horses,  my  spools  for  a  ball, 
While  thimble  and  buttons  and  needles  and  pins. 
As  useless  encumbrance,  are  thrown  to  the  winds. 
But  his  forte  is  mechanics — he'll  labor  and  plan 
With  his  cards  and  his  blocks  by  the  hour,  and  a  man 
With  a  shop  full  of  tools  couldn't  make  as  much  noise 
As  he'll  hammer  out  with  his  sticks  and  his  toys. 

But  the  funniest  trick  of  the  dear  little  elf 
Is  the  fervor  with  which  he  denounces  himself 
For  some  little  freak  of  his  mischievous  fun, 
Or  perhaps  when  no  mischief  at  all  has  been  done, — 
Says  he's  a  "bad  boy"  with  such  comical  gravity, 
As  if  fully  convinced  of  his  utter  depravity, 
And  would  seek  toward  off  by  this  honest  confession 
The  fearful  results  of  his  heinous  transgression. 
I  call  him  a  "good  boy,"  a  "sweet  boy,"  in  vain, 
He  but  shakes  his  wee  poll  and  repeats  it  again, 
"A  bad  boy,"  "a  bad  boy,"  till  at  last  I  give  o'er 
And  I  love  the  "bad  boy"  only  so  much  the  more. 


Our  Baby  in  the  Country.  9 

He  just  has  been  helping  me  eat  a  large  pear, 
Much   grieved   that   a   cow   within   sight   couldn't 

share, — 
For  whatever  his  portion,  and  however  small. 
There's  some  for  the  "Mooeys"  and  "Bow-wows" 

and  all. 
Oh,  dear  little  heart,  full  of  generous  love. 
And  simple  and  pure  as  the  angels  above. 
Can  it  be  that  this  beautiful  world  we  are  in 
Could  stain  thy  sweet  spirit  with  folly  and  sin? 
Could  teach  thee  these  graces  of  heart  to  discard ; 
Make  thee  haughty  and  cruel,  or  selfish  and  hard? 
No,  never,  my  darling,  such  fate  could  be  thine ! 
On  the  innocent  face  looking  up  into  mine — 
Index  of  a  soul  without  blemish  or  stain — 
The  light  of  God's  image  must  ever  remain. 


He  would  ride  all  the  day,  but  his  crowning  delight 
Is  to  go  and  meet  papa  on  Saturday  night. 
So  patient  he  sits  till  the  bright  hair  is  curled 
(His  heaviest  trial,  as  yet,  in  this  world), 


10  Our  Baby  in  the  Country. 

Surveys  his  blue  ribbons  with  satisfied  air, 
And  feels  on  his  head  if  his  hat  is  yet  there. 
Then,  handkerchief  waving,  and  glad  expectation 
Upon  his  sweet  face,  we  set  off  for  the  station. 
Giving  voice  to  his  joy  in  his  sweet  little  song 
Of  "pa-pa"  and  "pa-pa"  as  he  trundles  along. 
At  last  his  quick  ear  catches  sound  of  the  train, 
And  with  renewed  vigor  he's  waving  again ; 
The  thundering  engine  comes  near  and  more  near, 
And  the  dear  one  so  watched  for  and  welcomed  is 
here! 

Near  Chicago,  1869. 


MY  LITTLE  LABORER.* 

A    TINY  man,  with  fingers  soft  and  tender, 
^^     As  any  lady's  fair; 
Sweet  eyes  of  blue,  a  form  but  frail  and  slender, 

And  curls  of  sunny  hair. 
A  household  toy,  a  fragile  thing  of  beauty. 

Yet  with  each  rising  sun 
Begins  his  round  of  toil — a  solemn  duty, 

That  must  be  daily  done. 

Today  he's  building  castle,  house  and  tower. 

With  wondrous  art  and  skill. 
Or  labors  with  his  hammer  by  the  hour. 

With  strong,  determined  will. 
Anon,  with  loaded  little  cart,  he's  plying 

A  brisk  and  driving  trade; 
Again,  with  thoughtful,  earnest  brow,  is  trying 

Some  book's  dark  lore  to  read. 

[11] 


12  My  Little  Laborer. 

Now,  laden  like  some  little  beast  of  burden, 

He  drags  himself  along, 
And  now  his  lordly  little  voice  is  heard  in 

Boisterous  shout  and  song; 
Another  hour  is  spent  in  busy  toiling 

With  hoop  and  top  and  ball, 
And  with  a  patience  that  is  never  failing. 

He  tries  and  conquers  all. 

But  sleep  at  last  o'ertakes  my  little  rover. 

And  on  his  mother's  breast. 
Toys  thrown  aside,  the  day's  hard  labor  over. 

He  sinks  to  quiet  rest; 
And  as  I  fold  him  to  my  bosom,  sleeping, 

I  think,  'mid  gathering  tears. 
Of  what  the  distant  future  may  be  keeping 

As  work  for  manhood's  years. 

Must  he,  with  toil,  his  daily  bread  be  earning. 

In  the  world's  busy  mart, 
Life's  bitter  lessons  every  day  be  learning. 

With  patient,  struggling  heart? 
Or  shall  my  little  architect  be  building 

Some  monument  of  fame. 
Whereon,  in  letters  bright  with  glory's  gilding, 

The  world  may  read  his  name? 


My  Little  Laborer.  13 

Perhaps  some  humble,  lowly  occupation, 

But  shared  with  sweet  content; 
Perhaps  a  life  in  loftier,  prouder  station. 

Both  well  and  wisely  spent; 
Perchance  these  little  feet  will  cross  the  portal 

Of  learning's  lofty  fane. 
His  life  work  be  to  scatter  truths  immortal 

Among  the  sons  of  men ! 

Whate'er  thy  lot,  O  blessed  little  sleeper. 

Where'er  thy  feet  may  roam. 
When  life  is  done,  and  Death,  the  world's  great  reaper, 

Shall  call  thy  harvest  home, 
Mayst  thou  go  then  as  sweetly  to  thy  slumbers. 

Earth's  toys  lay  gladly  down, — 
Then  rise,  to  wear  'mid  heaven's  angelic  numbers, 

A  starry,  radiant  crown ! 


*  "My  Little  Laborer"  is  especially  prized  by  myself, 
not  so  much  that  it  is  one  of  my  best  efforts,  and  has 
been  more  widely  copied  than  almost  any  other,  as  for 
the  associations  connected  with  it.  Bertie  was  a  wee 
thing.  His  dear  father  bring-ing  him  to  me  one  eve- 
ning for  his  bath,  said  laughingly,  "Look  at  his  dirty 
little  hands!  They  are  like  a  blacksmith's.  Indeed 
he  works  as  hard  as  any  day  laborer.  There's  a  sub- 
ject for  you — My  Little  Laborer."  He  kissed  the  boy 
and  me,  and  left  us. 

As  I  hushed  the  child  to  sleep  my  thoughts  followed 
the  path  laid  out  for  them,  and  when  our  beloved  re- 
turned "My  Little  Laborer"  was  ready  for  his  reading. 
He  prized  and  praised  it  much.  I  heard  it  first  as  he  read 
it  aloud.  That  occasion,  and  the  beauty  of  his  voice, 
gave  it  a  charm  in  my  ears  that  has  always  remained. 


MY  TWO  SONS.* 


LINNIE  AND  BERTIE. 


'  I  ^WO  little  lives  my  earthly  life  have  blessed, 
■*•        Two  little  forms  have  stood  beside  my  knee, 
Warm  baby  kisses  on  my  lips  have  pressed, 
Or  on  my  bosom  sunk  to  quiet  rest. 

Or  played  about  me  in  their  childish  glee. 

Like  two  fair  lilies  drooping  from  one  stem. 

Two  alabasters  taken  from  one  mould, 
The  sunny  hair,  soft  eyes,  and  slender  frame. 
Each  baby  grace  and  feature  still  the  same — 
But  ah !  what  contrast  does  their  future  hold ! 

To  one  is  given  a  pledge  that  must  remain 

Unchanged  as  heaven's  eternal,  living  truth, 
That  sorrow  ne'er  shall  wring  his  heart  with  pain. 
No  thought  of  sin  his  guileless  spirit  stain, 
Nor  death  nor  sickness  ever  blight  his  youth, 


[14] 


My  Two  Sons.  15 

But  in  an  atmosphere  all  love  and  peace, 

His  little  life  goes  calmly,  sweetly  on, 
'Mid  purest  pleasures  that  will  never  cease, 
In  grace  and  beauty  that  must  still  increase. 

When  earth's  best  gifts  are  long  since  past  and 
gone. 

While  to  the  other  comes  earth's  common  fate 
Of  pain  and  sickness,  care  and  toil  and  woe ; 
The  sins  and  sorrows  of  our  lost  estate. 
The  thousand  ills  that  on  life's  pathway  wait. 
The  aching  heart  earth's  happiest  mortals  know. 

O,  baby-brow,  illumed  with  heaven's  own  light. 

Must  time  and  sorrow  plough  deep  furrows  there? 
O,  guileless  spirit,  plumed  for  angels'  flight. 
When  sin's  dark  hosts  assail  thee  in  their  might, 
How  wilt  thou  the  unequal  conflict  bear? 

Yet  did  an  angel,  e'en  my  angel  child, 

Come  whispering  in  my  awe-struck  ear  tonight, 
And  plead  that  now,  while  pure  and  undefiled. 
Unstained  by  sin  nor  racked  with  passions  wild. 
His  hand  might  lead  thee  to  the  realms  of  light. 


16  My  Two  Sons. 

My  mother-heart,  weak  in  its  selfish  love, 

In  vain  would  seek  for  grace  to  let  thee  go; 

Aye,  knowing  all  that  waits  for  thee  above, 

Unequal  to  the  sacrifice  would  prove. 

And  be,  perchance,  thy  doom  to  death  and  woe. 

Oh,  God  of  goodness  and  of  love  divine. 

Whose  wondrous  ways  no  mortal  tongue  can  tell. 

In  this,  as  all  things  else.  Thy  will,  not  mine ! 

Thine  is  the  past,  be  all  the  future  thine. 
And,  life  or  death,  all  must  and  will  be  well. 

Chicago,  1869. 


*  The  last  verses  of  mine  their  father  read,  and 
only  the  first  two  stanzas  did  he  see.  The  second  line 
of  second  verse,  "Two  alabasters,"  etc.,  is  his  idea.  I 
asked  him  for  a  second  simile,  quoting  "Two  fair 
lilies."  telling-  him  the  necessary  rhyme,  and  he  in- 
stantly suggested  the  line  as  it  stands.  The  poem 
refers  to  my  eldest  boy,  then  passed  on  to  the  life 
beyond,  and  Bertie,  my  now  oldest  boy, — Charlie,  born 
after  his  father's  death,  not  being  included. 


MY  LOT.* 

'^Y/I'^H    stumbling,   bleeding   feet,   so   tired   and 
^^       lonely, 
To  struggle  on  o'er  life's  rough,  stony  road; 

Where  hitherto  sweet  flowers  have  blossomed  only, 
And  dear,  dear  feet  with  mine  the  way  have  trod — 
Feet  walking  now  the  golden  streets  of  God. 

With  patient,  but,  ah !  me,  such  weary  fingers 
Life's  tangled  threads  to  ravel  day  by  day; 

While  still  on  mine  the  loving  pressure  lingers 
Of  hands  that  ever  led  me  on  my  way — 
Strong,  tender  hands  that  never  led  astray ! 

With  weeping,  blifided  eyes  to  look  before  me, 
Tho'  strange  the  way,  and  dark  the  prospect  be; 

When  every  cloud  gained  brightness  that  came  o'er 
me, 
From  eyes  whose  love-light  bade  all  shadows  flee — 
O  eyes,  that  now  the  King  in  beauty  see ! 


[17] 


18  My  Lot. 

With  aching,  broken  heart  to  find  my  duty, 

And  bravely  grasp  it  tho'  sharp  thorns  entwine, 

Tho'  from  my  life  all  light  and  joy  and  beauty 
Have  vanished  with  the  heart  knit  one  with  mine — 
Dear  heart  that  never  doubted  Love  Divine! 

Sometimes    e'en    now,    when    most   heart-sick    and 
weary 
A  well-known  whisper  seems  to  greet  mine  ear — 

"Take  courage,  dear  one ;  tho'  the  way  be  dreary 
There's  much  still  left  thy  stricken  heart  to  cheer. 
And  love  and  peace  and  joy  all  wait  thee  here. 

"Life's  journey  ended,  there  will  haste  to  meet  thee 
The  same  dear  feet  that  walked  with  thine  before, 

The  same  true  eyes  in  loving  welcome  greet  thee, 
The  same  hands  clasp  thee  as  in  days  of  yore, 
The  same  fond  heart  claim  thine  forevermore." 

New  York,  1870. 


*  The  first  written  after  my  widowhood,  In  Twenty- 
fifth  Street,  New  York — Charlie  a  baby.  Not  published 
till  long  after,  when  I  had  to  turn  my  most  sacred 
thoughts  into  money. 


LOOKING  OVER.* 

/^  AM  I  so  near  the  bright  river 
^^     That  flows  by  yon  heavenly  shore? 
Have  sorrow  and  tears  fled  forever? 
Pale  Grief,  shall  I  know  thee  no  more? 

To  my  heart  thou  hast  not  been  a  stranger 
In  all  the  long  years  that  are  past, — . 

Ah,  bright  Joy,  thou  fair,  fickle  ranger, 
I  give  thee  a  welcome  at  last ! 

Come,  fold  thy  still  fluttering  pinions. 
And  make  thee  a  home  in  my  breast. 

For  in  yonder  bright,  starry  dominions 
Each  dweller  may  claim  thee  as  guest! 

And  open  thy  portals  of  glory, 

Ye  angelic  warders,  I  come! 
Forgotten  my  life's  anguished  story 

In  the  light  and  the  welcome  of  home ! 

[19] 


20  Looking  Over. 

For  waiting  there,  waiting  to  greet  me, 

Are  dear  ones  I  love  to  recall. 
And  hasting  with  swift  feet  to  meet  me 

The  one  that  is  dearer  than  all ! 

O,  life  of  my  life,  husband,  lover, 

My  heart  throbs  with  rapture  and  glee, 

As  I  feel  the  strong  waves  bear  me  over 
To  life,  and  to  love,  and  to  thee ! 

When  once  more  thy  strong  arm  shall  enfold  me, 
And  I  know  that  we  never  shall  part, 

When  thy  dear  lips  once  more  shall  have  told  me 
My  love  is  the  life  of  thy  heart, 

When  heavenly  love  shall  have  brought  me 

The  grace  to  be  worthy  of  thine. 
And  thine,  in  its  turn,  shall  have  taught  me 

The  better  to  know  Love  Divine — 

Thy  dear  hand  shall  then  lead  me  over 
The  path  thou  must  often  have  trod. 

To  the  feet  of  the  gracious  Jehovah, 
The  Saviour,  the  Incarnate  God ! 


Looking  Over.  21 


And  while  we  are  vainly  expressing 
The  bliss  that  we  scarcely  can  bear, 

We  will  plead  for  His  Infinite  blessing 
On  the  life  that  is  waiting  us  there ! 


But,  e'en  as  I  sing,  I  am  nearing 
The  shores  of  the  bright  summer  land. 

The  mists  from  the  mountain  tops  clearing, 
All  purple  and  azure  they  stand ! 

Soft  breezes  sweet  perfumes  are  bringing; 

In  the  sunlight  the  silver  sands  gleam ; 
And  see !   there  are  baby  hands  flinging 

Bright  roses  far  out  in  the  stream  ! 

Each  wave  is  now  deeper  and  stronger — 
Each  one  bears  me  nearer  the  shore, 

O,  mortals,  I  see  thee  no  longer ! 
O,  friends,  I  can  tell  thee  no  more ! 

Montrose,  1870. 


*  Impromptu.  Sang  it  to  Bei'tie  as  I  rocked  him 
to  sleep  at  Montrose,  and  then  wrote  it  down  in  the 
nioonlig-ht.  In  tlie  morning  it  was  as  new  to  me  as 
if  written  by  some  one  else. 


CHARLIE. 

WRITTEN   AT   HIS    BIRTH. 

y^  CHILD  of  my  sorrow,  O  child  of  my  fears, 
^^     Whose  life  has  been  nurtured  in  anguish  and 

tears, 
Why  open  thy  eyes  on  earth's  desolate  night 
When  thy  father's,  dear  baby,  are  closed  to  its  light? 
Why  claim  thy  sad  heritage,  orphan  forlorn  ? 
O  why,  my  poor  innocent,  why  wast  thou  born? 
That  I  might  have  something  to  hold  to  my  heart 
Of  my  own  stricken  being  so  real  a  part 
Thou  dost  echo  my  sighs  and  give  voice  to  my  woe 
In  grief  as  such  innocence  never  should  know? 
By  thy  pure  little  presence  to  teach  me  the  faith 
That  can  pierce  through  this  darkness  that  mortals 

call  death? 
Then  to  flutter  thy  pinions  and  fly  away  home? 
Almost  better,  my  baby,  thou  never  hadst  come! 
That  I  might  see  in  thee,  albeit  through  tears. 
The  hope  and  the  stay  of  my  desolate  years  ? 


[22] 


Charlie.  23 

In  thy  dear  form  familiar  Hnes  to  trace, 
Once  more  in  thine  behold  thy  father's  face, 
Then  trembling  watch  to  see  some  daring  sin 
Assail  my  castled  hope  and  entrance  win. 
Stain  the  pure  soul  and  mar  the  fair  clear  brow? 

0  baby,  better  far  to  leave  me  now ! 
Or  is  thy  infant  soul  the  garden  where 

1  yet  must  learn  to  bury  grief  and  care, 

With  patient  hand  sow  seeds  of  hope  and  trust 
And,  knowing  God  is  love  and  love  is  just, 
Look  down  the  years  and  see  the  bloom  of  thine 
Shed  grace  and  beauty  on  the  blight  of  mine  ? 
All  this  my  child  thou  shalt  be — aye,  and  this : 
A  living  link  between  my  soul  and  his 
Whose  life  and  love  hath  left  thee  to  my  care 
To  sow  for  both  the  seeds  that  blossom  there ! 
Dear  heart,  I  take  the  trust  in  God's  own  way. 
And  faithful  will  I  prove  till  that  blest  day 
When  Death's  soft  hand  shall  close  my  waiting  eyes 
And  thy  dear  voice  wake  me  in  Paradise ! 

Kingston,  August,  1870. 


PAPA'S  GARDEN. 

INCIDENT     CONCERNING     BERTIE     THAT     TRANSPIRED 
JUST  AS  WRITTEN. 

•T^HROUGH  Greenwood's  sorrow-trodden  paths, 
•■'     With  aching  heart  I  wandered  on, 
Seeking  the  sacred  Uttle  spot 

I  love,  yet  weep,  to  call  my  own. 
Small  hands  to  mine  confiding  clung — 
Poor  little  hands,  so  frail,  so  young. 

They  laid  their  freshly-gathered  flowers, 

At  my  behest,  upon  the  mound, 
And  then,  in  quest  of  newer  play. 

Like  butterflies  they  fluttered  round. 
Lighting  at  times  upon  my  face, 
With  comforting,  caressing  grace. 

Hopeless  I  sat  beside  that  grave. 

The  while  my  prattling,  three-year  boy 

Ran  laughing  o'er  the  pebbled  path 
And  grassy  slope  in  childish  joy. 

"More  flowers !"  he  cried,  *'0  mamma,  see ! 

Whose  pretty  garden  can  this  be?" 


[24] 


Papa's  Garden.  25 

That  here  his  father's  form  lay  deep, 

I  hid  with  ever  watchful  care, 
Yet  long  had  wished  some  thought  of  him, 

Some  pleasant  thought,  might  meet  him  there. 
I  kissed  the  nestling,  orphaned  head — 
"It's  papa's  garden,  dear,"  I  said. 

''My  papa's?    Mine,  that  lives  in  heaven 
With  all  God's  sweet  and  pretty  flowers? 

Oh,  how  I  wish  he'd  leave  some  here 
Next  time  he  comes  to  gather  ours. 

Mamma,  do  you  think  God  would  care? 

Tonight  I'll  ask  him  in  my  prayer." 

"Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes,"  I  cried, 
''Doth  God  his  loving  comforts  bring! 

Teaching  my  sore  and  sobbing  heart, 
That  by  His  grace  may  sweetly  spring 

E'en  here,  where  all  is  claimed  by  death, 

The  heavenly  flowers  of  hope  and  faith." 


26  Papa's  Garden. 

As  home  we  turned,  my  little  lad 
Kept  looking  back,  with  earnest  air, 

"To  see  if  papa  yet  had  come 
To  take  the  flowers  we  left  him  there." 

O  baby  heart  of  simple  faith, 

How  thou  dost  triumph  over  death ! 

Sweet  comforter,  that  speaks  to  me, 
With  lips  and  eyes  thy  father's  own. 

Teach  me  to  look  from  death  and  dust 
To  where  that  dear  one  liveth  on. 

So,  with  "God's  flowers"  upon  my  breast, 

My  anguished  heart  shall  find  its  rest. 

New  York,  1872. 


"TILL  DEATH." 

T  TPON  her  upturned  face  the  moonlight  streams, 
^^  Love's  written  message  flutters  from  her  hands ; 
Within  her  happy  eyes  the  Hght  still  gleams 

From  words  that  only  love  quite  understands. 
"Thine  own  till  death,"  he  signs.     "Till  death  my 

own !" 
And  love's  securest  rapture  thrills  her  tone. 

Each  word  upon  her  ear  in  music  falls, 
As  when  some  heavenly  aria  is  sung; 

The  melody  alone  our  soul  enthralls, 

The  words  may  speak  to  us  in  foreign  tongue. 

Till  death !  till  death !   Love  never  spake  till  now. 

Or  breathed  in  sweeter  words  a  stronger  vow. 


A  few  short  years,  and  by  the  waning  light 
Of  a  September's  rainy  afternoon, 

She  mutely  sits  beneath  the  chilling  blight 
That  fell  upon  her  happy  life  so  soon. 

[27] 


28  "Till  Death." 

Her  looks  are  bent  in  longing,  yet  in  dread, 
Upon  the  faded  letter  that  she  holds, 

While  tears  like  rain  fall  on  the  nestling  head 
That  hides  its  gold  amid  her  sable  folds. 

O  Love,  thou  know'st  not  time  !    She  reads,  and  lo ! 

The  years  departed  open  like  a  scroll; 
The  old-time  flush  creeps  o'er  her  cheek  of  snow, 

Love's  flame  relights  the  window  of  her  soul. 
She  nears  the  end,  and  with  one  heart-wrung  cry. 

The  last  of  hope,  the  first  of  long  despair, 
"Till  death !"  she  sobs ;  ''O  God,  since  he  could  die, 

The  world's  a  grave,  and  hope  lies  buried  there." 


O  Love  !  O  Death  !  forever  still  at  strife  ! 

O  stricken  ones !  wherefore  can  ye  not  hear 
What  omnipresent,  all-pervading  Life 

Still  seeks  to  whisper  in  your  earth-dulled  ear 
"There  is  no  death !   All  life  fore'er  abides ! 

The  shadow  ye  so  dread  and  trembling  see 
Is  but  the  veil  that  mercifully  hides 

The  glory  of  my  immortality." 

Bath,  April,  1873. 


THE  SLEEP  OF  SORROW. 

T    TOW  blessed  it  is  that  the  dews  of  sleep 
'*■"''  So  swiftly  fall  on  eyelids  wet  with  tears. 
**He  found  them  sleeping,  for  their  eyes  were  heavy.' 
And  not  alone  in  sad  Gethsemane, 
But  everywhere  that  Grief  and  Sorrow  go, 
Comes  pitying  Sleep,  with  soft  and  gentle  hand 
To  scatter  seeds  of  slumber,  and  to  bathe 
The  weary  spirit  in  a  sea  of  rest. 
The  weeping  eyes  are  closed,  the  throbbing  head 
Extorts  no  more  weak  nature^s  tortured  moan ; 
The  aching  heart  is  still ;   all  troubles  lost 
In  sweet  forgetfulness.    Thrice-blessed  Sleep, 
That,  like  to  One  Divine  who  walked  the  waves. 
Comes  on  the  surging  billows  of  our  grief. 
And  in  a  voice  whose  heavenly  music  thralls 
Our  senses  in  a  sweet,  subduing  spell, 
Hushing  to  rest  each  troubled  wave  of  thought. 
Says,  ^Teace,  be  still !" 


[29] 


LOVERS  APPEAL. 

LOUISE   AND   MR.    HUNT. 

/^  LAND  of  birds  !    O  land  of  flowers ! 
^^^     Of  balmy  airs  and  sunny  hours ! 
Land  of  the  vine  and  orange  grove, 
Blest  land  that  holds  my  life,  my  love ! 
Bright  land  of  bloom,  sweet  land  of  song, 
Keep  not  my  soul's  dear  love  too  long. 
Hide  not  within  thy  leafy  bowers 
That  fairest  of  thy  countless  flowers. 
For  though  it  blooms  a  while  for  thee 
Its  budding  life  belongs  to  me. 

O  land  of  frost !    O  land  of  snow ! 

Of  wintry  winds  that  cheerless  blow! 

O  desert  land,  O  frozen  sea. 

Where  she  is  not,  yet  I  must  be ! 

Haste,  haste  to  break  your  chains,  ye  rills ! 

Burst  from  your  cerements,  ye  hills ! 

[30] 


1 


Love's  Appeal.  31 

Whisper  once  more,  O  summer  breeze, 
To  blushing  flowers  and  fluttering  trees. 
That  I  may  woo,  nor  woo  in  vain. 
My  love  to  come  to  me  again ! 

And  O,  blest  land  all  lands  above, 
Bound  not  by  space, — sweet  Land  of  Love ! 
Bright,  beauteous  isle  of  life's  rough  sea. 
How  turns  my  waiting  soul  to  thee  ! 
Afar  thy  sun-crowned  summits  rise, 
Thou  Mecca  of  my  longing  eyes; 
Thy  melodies  float  down  the  years 
Sweet  as  the  music  of  the  spheres. 
My  all  of  heaven  on  earth  thou  art. 
Break  not  thy  promise  to  my  heart ! 

New  York,  January ,  1872. 


TO  A  CHILD'S  PICTURE. 

PICTURE    OF     CHARLIE    WHEN    TWO     YEARS    OLD. 
CHATTIE  NAMED  IT  "INNOCENCE." 

QWEET  "Innocence !"    You  could  not  claim 
*^    A  fitter,  sweeter,  better  name; 
Would  that  its  light  upon  your  brow 
We  still  might  see  long  years  from  now, 
And  call  you  by  the  same! 

Fair,  tiny  hands,  that  scarce  can  hold 
The  little  garment's  dainty  fold; 
What  weary  tasks  ye  yet  must  do ! 
What  heavy  burdens  wait  for  you, 
Within  those  years  untold ! 

Sweet  eyes  that  now  may  look  upon 
God's  angels  smiling  in  the  sun, 
Must  ye  see  earth's  dark  places. 
Its  tear-stained,  sin-stained  faces, 
Mine  even  seek  to  shun? 

[32] 


To  a  Child's  Picture.  33 

Rose-blossom  feet,  ah,  not  unshod, 
Must  ye  essay  life's  stony  road; 
For  thorns  and  pitfalls  will  ye  meet 
Before  ye  walk  the  golden  street 
Or  vine-clad  hills  of  God ! 

Fast-beating  heart,  that  throbs  within 
The  baby  breast,  unstained  by  sin ; 
In  God's  dear  hand  I  leave  the  pain, — 
Life's  bitter  cup  you  needs  must  drain 
Before  His  heaven  you  win ! 


Bath,  1872. 


AN  AUTUMN  CAROL. 

To  JESSIE  BROWN  BARLOW. 

WHEN  we  twined  sweet  blossoms, 
Some  few  months  ago, 
Bridal  blossoms,  blooming 

In  the  frost  and  snow, 
Minstrel  then  or  listener. 

On  that  golden  night, 
Scarcely  dreamed  the  summer 

Could  have  brought  to  light 
Such  a  beauteous  floweret, 

Born  of  those  sweet  hours. 
Softer  than  their  snow  flakes. 

Fairer  than  their  flowers. 

And  of  all  the  offerings. 
Brought  then  to  thy  shrine. 

All  the  joys  and  pleasures 
That  have  since  been  thine ; 

[34] 


An  Autumn  Carol.  35 

Happy  bride  and  mother, 

Tell  me,  hast  thou  known 
Aught  of  bliss  or  rapture, 

As  this  hour  hath  shown? 
Worn  upon  thy  bosom 

Gem  as  undefiled. 
Radiant  and  precious 

As  this  little  child? 

May  it  brim  with  sweetness, 

All  the  coming  years; 
May  the  smiles  it  wakens 

Banish  all  the  tears  ! 
And,  when  winter  coming 

Brings  again  the  day 
When  thy  hand  gave  gladly 

Heart  and  life  away. 
And,  with  smiles,  dost  number 

All  the  flowerets  wove 
By  the  hand  of  heaven 

In  thy  crown  of  love; 
O,  with  lips  of  blessing, 

Surely  thou  wilt  call 
This  sweet  bridal  blossom 

Fairest  of  them  all ! 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  "ATLANTIC." 

APRIL,  1873. 

13  ITILESS  Atlantic,  'neath  whose  surging  waves 

■*•  Youth  and  strength  and  beauty  sleep  in  name- 
less graves, 

From  thy  deathly  roll-call  why  couldst  thou  not 
spare 

Thine  own  beauteous  namesake,  young  and  strong 
and  fair? 

If  no  throb  of  pity  for  her  woe  couldst  feel, — 
Quivering  heart  of  iron,  straining  ribs  of  steel, 
Racked  to  save  the  thousand  on  her  bosom  thrown. 
Holding  each  life  dearer  even  than  her  own — 

Thou  rapacious  monster,  couldst  man's  agony. 
Woman's  cry  nor  childhood's,  find  no  grace  with 

thee  ?    ' 
Vain,  all  vain,  their  pleadings,  as  the  curses  hurled 
Now  upon  thy  treachery  by  a  stricken  world! 


[36] 


The  Wreck  of  the  Atlantic.  37 

"Fair  and  false,"  proud  ocean !    Yet  not  all  by  thee 
Are  the  thousands  shipwrecked  that  go  down  at  sea — 
Lured  by  lying  beacons  to  a  rock-bound  shore, 
Lashed  on  hidden  dangers,  sunk  to  rise  no  more ! 

O,  thou  Power  Almighty,  Love  we  name  thee  still, 
Since  nor  soul  nor  body  suffers  by  Thy  will; 
By  Thine  erring  creatures  oft  misunderstood, 
Out  of  all  life's  evils  wilt  Thou  still  bring  good ! 


MY  JEWELS.* 

C.   H.   L.   M. 

npO  clasp  my  matron-girdle  fair 
"*■       Sweet  Love  to  me  hath  given 
Three  jewels  bright  beyond  compare, 
Fresh  from  the  courts  of  heaven. 

They  gleam  and  glow  within  my  sight 

In  all  their  radiant  beauty; 
To  keep  undimmed  their  heavenly  light 

Is  life's  beloved  duty. 


38  My  Jewels. 

My  jewels  three !    My  fair,  brave  boys ! 

Brighter  than  diamonds  glowing, 
Their  sparkling  young  lives  are  to  me 

In  beauty  daily  growing. 

Now  'mongst  my  treasures  drops  a  pearl, 

Gem  of  the  purest  water, 
Love's  last  sweet  gift,  my  baby-girl. 

My  little  blue-eyed  daughter! 

And  when,  dear  Lord,  my  trust  is  o'er. 
Back  to  their  native  heaven 

May  I  these  living  gems  restore — 
The  children  Thou  hast  given. 

Bathy  1873. 


♦  A   trifle.     Written    for    Chattie,    and   prematurely, 
for  the  "blue-eyed  daughter"  was  another  boy! 


NEIGHBOR  WILLIE.  ' 

I     ITTLE  Willie's  a  cunning  and  dear  little  boy, 
'"^  Brimming  over  with  frolic  and  mischief  and  joy ; 
I  think  it's  not  once  in  a  month  that  he  cries, 
And  that  is  the  reason  he  has  such  bright  eyes ! 

He's  a  stout  little  fellow,  cheeks  rosy  and  red, 
And  hair  like  his  papa's,  cut  close  to  his  head. 
He  wears  panties,  too,  although  pretty  young. 
And  has  such  a  little  French  twist  of  a  tongue ! 

Sometimes  to  our  house  on  an  errand  he's  sent. 
And  back  we  must  go  to  find  out  what  is  meant. 
He'll  jabber  away  just  as  fast  as  can  be, 
But  Dutch,  French,  or  English,  it's  all  Greek  to  me. 

My  two  little  fellows,  named  Bertie  and  "Bud", 
Their  breakfast  once  over,  like  young  deer  will  scud 
In  search  of  this  Willie ;  for  seas  you  might  stem, 
Yet  fail,  if  you  tried,  to  part  Willie  and  them. 


[39] 


40  Neighbor  Willie. 

One  morning  for  breakfast  they  scarcely  could  wait, 
For  Willie  was  swinging  away  on  his  gate, 
And  shouting  out  lustily  over  the  way, 
"I  tay,  id  ou  dorn  a  ad  dum-pe  a  tay?" 

"My  dog  a  stump-tail?"  calls  Bertie  in  fun, 
"Why  no,  that  can't  be,  for  I  haven't  got  one." 
"No,  no !"  answers  Willie,  and  laughing  away, 
"I  tay,  id  ou  dorn  a  ad  dum-pe  a  tay?" 

"A  stone  coming  this  way?    Well,  it  just  better  not. 
That's  not  what  you  say?    Well,  who  can  tell  what 
You  mean  by  such  gibberish  lingo  as  that? 
A  Morn,'  and  a  *dum-pe,'  a  'tay'  and  a  *at'  !'* 

At  this  Master  Willie  grew  "mad"  as  could  be, 
And  Bertie  came  running  and  laughing  to  me; 
"O  mamma,"  he  said,  "do  come  and  find  out 
What  Willie  is  trying  to  tell  us  about." 

So  I  went  to  the  gate  and  said,  with  a  smile, 
"Come  over  hpre,  Willie,  and  play  for  a  while. 
Can't  you  come,  and  why  not?"   But  all  he  would  say 
Was,  "I  tay,  id  ou  dorn  a  ad  dum-pe  a  tay?" 


I 


Neighbor  Willie.  41 

"Well,  Willie,"  said  I,  "you  speak  pretty  plain, 

But  a  little  too  fast ;  now,  we'll  try  it  again." 

So  over  he  went  with  it,  much  in  this  way, 

"I — tay — id — ou — dorn — a — ad — dum — pe — a — tay?" 

Well,  I  looked  at  Bertie,  and  Bertie  at  me, 
As  we  puzzled  and  pondered  on  what  it  could  be. 
While  Willie's  looks  said — he's  as  sharp  as  a  knife — 
"Such  dunces  I  never  did  see  in  my  life !" 

I've  not  time  at  present  to  tell  you  about 
The  way  that  we  managed  to  make  it  all  out. 
But  we  had  some  visitors  spending  the  day, 
And  his  mother  had  said  that  when  they  went  away, 

He  could  come  and  see  Bertie  and  "Buddy"  once 

more, 
But  mustn't  go  plaguing  their  mamma  before. 
So  what  the  dear  baby  was  trying  to  say 
Was,  ^^  Are  you  going  to  have  company  today  f 

Bath,  1873. 


CHARLIE  BY  THE  SEA. 

T     ITTLE    Charlie    last    summer   went    down   by 
"'"^       the  sea, 

And  there  for  six  weeks  kept  a  grand  jubilee 
With  Bertie  his  brother  and  Archie  his  cousin, 
And  friends  they  met  there,  boys  and  girls  by  the 
dozen. 

They   gathered   bright   pebbles   and   shells   on   the 

strand, 
Built  houses  and  castles  and  forts  in  the  sand; 
Made  rivers  and  wells  that  had  real  water  in. 
Dug  oysters  and  clams ; — but  what  use  to  begin. 

Expecting  to  tell  you  the  fun  that  they  had  ? 
There's  one  way  to  tell  you,  and  I  should  be  glad 
Could  I  do  it  that  way.    Guess  how  it  would  be? — 
I  would  take  you  all  there,  and  then  you  would  see ! 


[42] 


I 


Charlie  by  the  Sea.  43 

But  Charlie's  first  bath  I  must  tell  you  about — 
First  how  he  went  in  and  then  how  he  came  out ! 
He  was  but  a  wee  fellow — past  three  but  not  four — 
And  as  he  came  scampering  down  on  the  shore, 

So  cunning  he  looked,  as  he  ran  in  such  haste — 
Nothing  on  but  a  towel  just  tied  round  the  waist, 
His  curls  flying  back,  little  arms  like  wings  spread. 
And  his  laugh  ringing  out  on  the  wind  as  he  sped : 

Then  his  dear  little  feet,  with  their  dear  weesey  toes 
Just  as  pink  as  the  shells  and  as  pretty  as  those. 
Oh,  he  was  as  proud  and  as  brave  as  could  be. 
And  thought  it  was  fine  to  be  bathed  in  the  sea. 

He  remembered  his  own  little  bath-tub  at  home — 
How  he  spluttered  and  splashed  and  got  covered 

with  foam. 
Well,  on  he  went  cautiously  down  to  the  strand. 
Leaving  dear  little  footprints  behind  in  the  sand ; 


44  Charlie  by  the  Sea. 

But  at  the  first  dip  of  his  foot  in  the  wave, 

Such  a  quick  little  cry  of  dismay  as  he  gave ; 

"I  ain't  doe-in  in,"  he  cries;  "didn't  know  it  was 

told— 
And  there's  such  a  lot  more  than  a  baf-tub  will 

hold." 

But  when  they  all  shouted  and  would  not  desist, 
He  rubbed  his  dear  eyes  with  his  fat  little  fist, 
Looked  round  at  the  ones  that  were  laughing,  and 

then 
Was  just  getting  ready  to  try  it  again, 

When  in  came  a  wave  rolling  on  to  the  shore. 

Poor  Charlie  ran  faster  than  ever  before, 

But  the  wave  could  outrun  him,  and  spite  of  his 

haste. 
It  caught  him  and  buried  him  up  to  the  waist ; 

And  the  poor  little  man,  with  the  fright  he  was  in. 
Got  covered  with  water  way  up  to  his  chin! 
It  was  but  a  moment,  and  when  from  the  land 
The  waters  rolled  back  again,  out  on  the  sand 


Charlie  by  the  Sea.  45 

Ran  poor  little  Charlie,  and  once  on  the  track 
That  led  to  the  bathing-house,  never  looked  back ! 
Each  dear  little  foot  in  turn  kicked  out  behind, 
But  his  curls  were  too  wet  to  fly  back  on  the  wind. 

The  children  all  shouted  in  mischievous  glee, 

But  I  was  as  sorry  as  sorry  could  be, 

Yet  I  laughed  at  the  darling  when,  "Mamma,"  he 

said, 
"I  fought  it  was  doe-in  right  over  my  head." 

He  learned  to  bathe  nicely  before  he  went  home, 
And  liked  it  as  well  as  the  bath-tub's  white  foam, 
But  I  dare  say  he'll  hear,  perhaps  till  he's  old. 
Of  "/  ain't  doe-m  in— didn't  know  it  was  told.''' 

Bath,  1873. 


SONNET. 


To  L.   P. 


/^  FRIEND — dear  title  and  dear  object,  too — 
Take  from  me  all  my  heart  so  poor  can  give ! 
My  gratitude  and  friendship  while  I  live 
Must  ever  be  your  just  and  honest  due. 
A  new  light  on  my  life  I  owe  to  you, 
A  smile  on  lips  whose  sole  prerogative 
Has  been  but  sighs  and  sobs — but,  ah,  forgive 
That  this  is  all,  all,  dear,  that  I  can  do. 
For  cold  as  lies  my  hand  in  your  warm  palm. 
Passive  and  silent  in  your  loving  grasp, 
Its  quick,  responsive  signals  all  forgot. 
E'en  so  my  heart  moves  never  from  its  calm, 
Still,  quiet,  even  beat — so,  friend,  unclasp 
My  poor  tired  fingers — yet,  O  leave  me  not! 


[46] 


I 


RECEIPT  FOR  PUFFS. 


LOUISE   ALLEN   AND    CHARLIE. 


rjEFORE  the  glass  our  Beauty  stands 
'-^     The  while  her  hair  she  dresses, 
In  rolls  and  curls,  in  braids  and  bands, 
She  twists  her  flowing  tresses. 


Our  little  "Bud"  across  the  floor 

All  day  is  making  trains  go ; 
We  might,  with  whistle,  snort,  and  roar, 

As  well  live  in  a  depot. 

"Oh,  what  a  plague,"  she  cries,  "are  boys ! 

I  don't  know  what  I'm  doing! 
Do  stop   that  everlasting  noise 

Of  tooting  and  chu-chu-ing !" 

"Toot!  toot!"  cries  "Bud,"  "chu-chu ;   all  wight!' 

Off  goes  the  rushing  train. 
"These  puffs,"  frets  Beauty,  "won't  go  right, 

And  I  shan't  try  again!" 

[47] 


48  Receipt  for  Puffs. 

"I  tell  'ou  'bout  'em — how  'ou  makes 
De  puffs,"  quoth  "Bud."    "I  know ! 

One  puff  is  to  put  on  de  bwakes, 
And  two  to  let  'em  go !" 

Bathy  1873. 


MRS.  BROWNING  * 

/^  POET-SOUL,  that  walked  among  the  stars, 
^^     And  caught  the  music  from  the  world  beyond, 
In  youth  thy  glowing  pages  oft  I  conned, 
Where   not   one    wrong-struck   chord    the    anthem 

mars; 
And,  free  in  those  bright  days  from  all  life's  scars — 
My  heaviest  chain,  Love's  soft  and  silken  bond — 
I  cried  with  reverent  soul  in  accents  fond, 
''Her  song  the  very  gate  of  heaven  unbars !" 
Since   then   I've   climbed   steep   paths,   and   walked 

alone 
Through  Grief's  dark  night,  haunted  by  haggard 

Care, 
Life's  youth  departed.  Love's  sweet  vision  flown ; 
But  as  in  joy,  so  now  in  my  despair. 
To  Heaven's  portal  dost  thou  lead  me  on. 
And  leave  me  weeping,  but  not  hopeless,  there. 

Bath,  September,  1873. 


*  Pronounced  by  literary  friend  of  good  judgment 
to  "stand  high  as  a  sonnet."  A  favorite  of  my  own, 
whether  from  love  of  the  subject  or  the  lines  them- 
selves, I  don't  know. 


[491 


A  VISION.* 

**It  was  the  hour  for  angels— there  stood  hers!** 

—Mrs.  Browning. 

'  I  'WO  hours  there  are  within  the  twenty-four 
•*'       My  trembling  heart  goes  forth  each  day  to 

meet, 
When  Grief  her  full  and  bitter  tide  doth  pour 

In  cruel  waves  around  my  shrinking  feet, 
And  almost  washes  from  my  hands  away 
The  staff  of  faith  on  which  I  lean  all  day. 

The  first  one  greets  me  with  each  morning's  light, 
When  from  sweet  dreams  of  love,  so  fond  and 
true, 

I  wake  to  sorrow's  chill  and  cheerless  night — 
Meeting  my  cruel  fate  each  dawn  anew. 

And  on  my  lonely  pillow,  sobbing,  say, 

"O,  aching  heart,  how  shall  we  bear  this  day?" 


[50] 


A  Vision.  51 

The  other  comes  with  still  more  torturing  power 
At  eventide,  for  in  sweet  days  gone  by 

He  knew  and  loved  it  as  ''the  children's  hour," 
And  saw  with  them  its  happy  moments  fly. 

Now  their  sweet  laughter  I  would  not  control 

Wakes  mournful  echoes  in  my  widowed  soul. 

To-night  their  play  is  done,  and  at  my  knee 
Both  sunny  heads  are  bent  in  baby  prayer. 

When  through  the   dusk  my  wondering  eyes  can 
see 
A  hand  of  light  upheld  in  blessing  there ! 

And  as  they  lift  to  mine  their  faces  bright, 

A  soft  voice  whispers  low  a  fond  ''Good  night." 

O,  best-beloved,  life  of  this  sad  heart. 
How  often  in  bright  days  forever  flown 

Thy  fond  lips  told  me  if  grim  Death  should  part 
Our  happy  lives,  and  leave  me  here  alone. 

Of  Heavenly  Love  the  boon  thou  wouldst  implore 

To  guide  thee  to  my  waiting  side  once  more ! 


52  A  Vision. 

And  though  no  eyes  but  mine  the  vision  see, 

No  ears  but  mine  the  whispered  words  may  hear, 

And  though  dear  friends  may,  doubting,  smile  at  me, 
I  know  thy  blessed  presence,  ever  near, 

Has  come  still  closer,  and  thy  heart  to  mine 

Thro'  childhood's  holy  sphere  gives  word  and  sign, 

In  blessed  token  thou  art  living  still, 

Tho'  flesh  and  sense  divide  us  for  a  while. 

And  thankfully  the  gracious  Master's  will 

My  patient  heart  can  meet  with  happy  smile. 

Aye,  bend  a  humble  and  repentant  ear 

To  the  reproof  my  waiting  soul  can  hear: 

"O,  thou  of  little  faith !"   He  seems  to  say, 

''How  couldst  thou  doubt?     The  blessing  that  I 
give 

I  give,  nor  ever,  ever  take  away. 

Because  I  live  thy  dear  ones  also  live ! 

Blessed  are  they  who  can  this  truth  receive. 

And  blessed  they  who  see  not,  yet  believe." 

Evening  of  February  10,  187 Jf. 

♦  By  this  poem  made  the  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  Ella 
Connell,  a  young  widow  of  Houston,  Texas,  who  wrote 
to  me  concerning-  it,  and  in  1876  came  North  to  the 
Centennial  and  came  to  Newark,  N.  J.,  to  see  me.  A 
lovely  little  brunette  she  was,  young-  and  so  pretty. 


KINSHIP.* 

/^  GRASSES  green,  beneath  my  feet 
^^      So  shyly,  softly  growing, 
I  hear  your  airy  voices  greet 
My  coming  and  my  going. 

O  sighing,  murmuring  leaves,  that  live 

So  far  and  high  above  me, 
Down  through  the  tender  shade  ye  give 

Ye're  whispering  that  ye  love  me. 

0  sweet,  sweet  flowers,  I  hold  the  while 
More  fondly  to  my  bosom, 

1  see  an  answering,  soul-lit  smile 
On  each  fair,  fragrant  blossom. 

O  swift,  bright  stream,  that  sweeps  along. 
With  merry,  rippling  laughter, 

You  echo  back  my  happy  song. 
And  woo  me  to  come  after. 

[53] 


54  Kinship. 

O  stream  and  flowers !    O  leaves  and  grass ! 

By  all  you  each  have  given, 
You  make  this  world  a  fairer  place 

For  human  hearts  to  live  in. 

Sweet  friends  ye  are — nay,  I  will  call 
Ye  brethren, — sisters,  rather, — 

For  are  we  not  the  children  all 
Of  one  dear  Heavenly  Father? 

And  though  to  that  great,  loving  Heart 
Man  holds  himself  the  dearer. 

Ye  well  may  claim  the  better  part 
Of  living  to  Him  nearer. 

Bath,  1874. 


*  After  the  children's  illness,  when  the  world  looked 
bright,  and  I  was  happy.  Published  in  Christian 
Union. 


A  SHADOW. 


To  L.   P. 


np  HE  leaves  and  grass  are  just  as  green 
"*■       This  springtide  as  the  last, 
And  this  year's  flowers  as  bright  and  fair 

As  those  of  any  past. 
The  breezes  come  and  go  as  fresh, 

The  brooklet  runs  as  free. 
But  naught  is  bright,  or  sweet,  or  fair, 

Or  fresh  or  green,  for  me. 

I  find  a  blight  on  every  flower, 

A  cloud  on  every  scene. 
And  in  the  birds'  most  joyous  notes 

A  thrill  of  woe  between. 
For,  O,  each  voice  that  Nature  hath 

Doth  take  from  ours  its  tone. 
And  every  form  of  life  the  hue 

And  shadow  of  our  own. 

[55] 


56  A  Shadow. 

The  niche  was  small,  O  vanished  friend, 

Thou  in  my  life  didst  fill; 
Yet,  as  the  weary  months  go  by, 

I  miss  and  mourn  thee  still. 
For  thus,  ungrateful,  we  misprize 

The  blessings  that  we  gain. 
Until  we  reach  out  empty  hands 

And  sigh  for  them  in  vain ! 

Bath,  187A. 


SEA-WEED.* 

r\  BEAUTEOUS  foliage  of  the  ocean  world, 

Torn  from  the  parent  stem  and  rudely  hurled 
By  adverse  fate  upon  our  foreign  shore, 
Weep  ye  your  sea-deep  home  forevermore. 
Poor  dripping  things  about  my  fingers  curled  ? 

Nay,  shrink  not  at  my  touch ;  the  leaves,  the  flowers, 
And  all  your  kin  in  this  bright  world  of  ours 
Make  me  their  friend,  and  whisper  in  my  ear 
Their  dearest  secrets,  without  thought  of  fear — 
Secrets  of  wood,  and  field,  and  garden  bowers. 

And  yours  I  know !    You,  weeping  o'er  my  hand. 
Are  a  huge  tree  down  in  your  elfin  land ; 
Above  your  envious  fellows  towering  there. 
As  oak  or  elm  here  in  our  upper  air : 
You  see  how  well  your  words  I  understand ! 


[57] 


58  Sea-weed. 

And  these,  of  leaf-like  form  and  emerald  sheen, 
Are  meadows  for  your  fairy  fetes,  I  ween ; 
Where  nympth  and  naiad  dance  the  hours  away, 
Nor  seek  their  sea-shell  couch  till  dawn  of  day ; 
Guess  I  not  wisely  what  your  whispers  mean? 

And  these,  that  to  my  giant  vision  seem 
Transparent  lace-work,  fragile  as  a  dream. 
Your  pigmy  hunters  find  a  trackless  maze. 
Whose  labyrinths  their  dizzy  senses  daze ; 
Nay,  but  I  know  ye  better  than  ye  deem! 

And  this,  of  thread-like  stem  and  feathery  bough. 
Hath  hearkened  oft  your  sea-folk  lover's  vow; 
And  these,  your  drooping  willows,  sadly  weep 
Your  loved  and  lost  that  mid  the  coral  sleep : 
Ah,  sweet  my  friends,  will  ye  not  trust  me  now. 

And  go  with  me,  as  far  from  hence  I  roam, 
Fair  blossoms  plucked  from  the  wild  ocean's  foam? 
Your  briny  fragrance  to  my  heart  shall  bring 
Thoughts  sweet  as  summer,  fresh  as  balmy  spring — 
Embodied  memories  of  my  ocean  home ! 

Bath,  187Jf. 

•  My  "sea- weed  fancy,"  as  a  friend  called  it.     Writ- 
ten at  Bath,  and  a  favorite  of  mine. 


COMPENSATION. 


INCIDENT    AT    BATH,    1874. 


T  WALKED  adown  my  leaf-strewn  garden-path 
■''     Whereon  a  vine,  torn  from  its  fastenings  there, 
Lay  bruised  and  trailing  on  the  au4:umn  leaves. 
My  heart  was  sad,  with  griefs  it  ever  hath 
Since  my  life's  summer  fled   and  left  all  bare 
The  sweet  green  fields,  ungarnered  all  my  sheaves. 

''Ah,  vine,"  I  said,  as  with  my  foot  I  moved 
Its  clinging  tendrils  from  my  path  away, 
''Fit  emblem  of  my  broken  life  thou  art! 
And  even  thus,  as  all  too  well  I've  proved, 
Do  happier  lives  pass  mine,  or  only  stay 
To  thrust  me  from  their  greener  ways  apart. 

"Yet  art  thou  blessed  beyond  me.     I,  alas, 

WoLild  count  it  bliss  beneath  God's  sunshine  warm 

To  sleep  away  in  death  my  weary  days." 


[59] 


60  Compensation. 

When  stooping,  lo,  beneath  the  leaves  and  grass 
All  wet  with  tears  of  the  last  night's  wild  storm, 
Two  purple  clusters  met  my  wondering  gaze — 

The  while  two  chubby  arms  about  my  neck 

Drew  down  my  face  to  meet  an  eager  kiss. 

And  other  two  as  fondly  held  me  fast. 

And  there  with  tears  I  could  not,  would  not,  check, 

*'Ah,  vine,"  I  murmured,  "for  such  fruit  as  this 

Well  may  we  both  forget  the  summer  past !" 


A 


UNAPPRECIATED. 

L.   P. 

FRIEND  some  blooming  crocus  bulbs 
Brought  to  my  hand  one  day  ; 
I,  little  prizing  friend  or  gift, 
Unheeding  went  my  way. 

Another  day,  and  lo,  the  flowers 
Had  dropped,  the  friend  was  fled. 

Ah,  then,  above  the  clay  of  both, 
What  bitter  tears  I  shed! 

While,  springing  from  some  hidden  root 
Among  those  withered  flowers, 

One  sweet,  blue  violet  droops  its  head 
Beneath  my  eyes'  hot  showers. 

So,  in  my  heart,  O  misprized  friend. 
There  springs  at  last  for  thee, 

From  the  unvalued,  vanished  past, 
A  tender  memory. 

Bath,  187U. 

[61] 


I 


TO  CHATTIE. 

/^  SAY,  dost  remember,  my  sweet  sister-friend, 
^^      A  fancy  we  had  in  our  far  youthful  days, 
That  fate  e'er  to  each  the  same  boon  did  extend, 
That,  rugged  or  smooth,  our  feet  walked  the  same 
ways  ? 

Nor  grief  of  your  childhood,  nor  joy,  but  in  mine 
Some  counterpart  found,  on  mine  left  some  trace ; 

No  light  on  my  girlhood  e'er  fell,  but  in  thine 
'Twas  caught  and  reflected  with  lovelier  grace. 

How  blue  was  the  sky  that  did  arch  o'er  us  both. 
How  green  was  the  path  that  stretched  out  to  our 
feet, 
When   into,  our  lives  came  sweet   love's   plighted 
troth 
And  earth  with  all  heavenly  joy  seemed  replete! 


[62] 


To  Chattie.  63 

And  when  each  to  her  heart  held  a  babe  all  her 

own — 

Shared  only  with  him  who  was  dearer  than  life, — 

Nor  childhood  nor  youth   e'er  such   raptures  had 

known 

As  those  that  we  then  knew  as  mother  and  wife. 

But  alas,  here  the  parallel  lines  cease  to  run — 
Death  came,  all  my  hopes  and  my  sweet  joys  to 
blight; 

While  love's  day  for  you  hath  but  scarcely  begun 
My  sun  has  gone  down  in  the  darkness  of  night. 


SONNETS  BY  THE  SEA. 

ON   LEAVING   BATH,   AUTUMN   OF    1874. 

/^  CALM  and  placid,  bright  and  beauteous  sea, 
^^^      Smiling  beneath  the  radiant  sunset  sky, 
While  many  a  snow-white  sail,  afar  and  nigh. 
Reflects  the  glow  above  them  down  on  thee — 
Entranced  I  gaze,  and  wonder  can  it  be 
That  storms  could  lift  thy  waters  mountains  high, 
And  send  to  death  yon  barks  that  peaceful  lie. 
Yet   sweet   the    thoughts    which    thou    dost    bring 

to  me — 
For  O,  my  life  is  rough  and  tempest-tossed 
As  thy  smooth  waves  oft  have  been  in  the  past; 
Its  fair  hopes  wrecked,  and  vanished  every  one, 
I  still  shall  see — tho'  now  I  call  them  lost — 
Reflecting  Heaven's  glory  at  the  last 
In  the  clear  .light  of  Life's  calm  setting  sun. 


[64] 


Sonnets  by  the  Sea.  65 

Farewell,  O  tuneful,  trustful,  helpful  sea ! 

I  go  to  dwell  far  from  thy  well-known  shore. 

Thy  ''voice  of  many  waters"  nevermore 

Shall  moan  or  murmur,  sigh  or  sing,  for  me. 

Thy  whispering  waves  in  seeming  sympathy 

Steal  up  to  kiss  my  weary  feet  no  more, 

Nor  thy  cool  spray  my  cheek,  bedewed  before 

With  tears  as  salt  and  wet  as  thine  can  be. 

Dear,  soothing,  cheering,  speaking  friend,  farewell ! 

I  weep  to  leave  thee,  and  hide  not  my  tears ; 

A  ministering  angel  unto  me 

Thou  long  hast  been,  and,  certes,  who  shall  tell. 

As  on  I  journey  down" the  weary  years. 

How  much  I  owe  these  last  two,  spent  near  thee? 


WATCHING  AND  WAITING.* 

pROM  my  upper  window,  at  the  close  of  day, 
*      Sadly  watching  passers  on  their  homeward  way ; 
Sadly,  sweetly  thinking  of  the  joy  and  glee 
When  one  came,  my  babies,  home  to  you  and  me ! 

In  the  dusk,  with  faces  close  against  the  pane, 
Peered  we  thro'  the  starlight,  snow  or  summer  rain — 
Happy  hearts  and  faces  watching  thro'  the  gloom 
For  the  blessed  footstep  that  was  sure  to  come. 

Hark !   I  hear  its  echo,  babies  mine,  once  more ! 
Hear  the  latch-key  turning  in  the  opening  door ! 
From   my   knee   you're   springing,   fearless   in   the 

gloom. 
While  I  flood  with  radiance  all  the  darkened  room. 

Swift  you  fly  to  meet  him,  open  wide  the  door. 
Closely  are  we  gathered  to  his  heart  once  more ; 
Tender  kiss  and  blessing  greet  your  childish  glee, 
But  the  warmest,  babies,  always  was  for  me. 


[66] 


Watching  and  Waiting.  67 

Fast  my  tears  are  falling  o'er  the  memory  sweet, 
While  I  catch  the  echo  still  of  passing  feet; 
But,  thro'  summer  starlight,  or  thro'  wintry  rain, 
Never,  O  my  babies,  will  he  come  again ! 

We  are  now  the  wanderers  in  the  dusk  and  gloom, 
He  the  one  that's  waiting  in  the  happy  home; 
From  his  upper  window,  tho'  we  may  not  see, 
He's    watching,    O    my    babies,    to    welcome    you 
and  me. 


•  My  most  successful  poem, — that  is,  most  widely 
copied  and  most  commented  on.  It  was  written  in 
ten  minutes  or  less,  on  a  snowy  twilight  in  March, 
1875,  Orchard  Street,  Newark,  "Prom  my  upper  win- 
dow" refers  to  the  second  floor  on  which  I  lived  alone 
with  "my  babied'  I  had  been  writing  all  day  to  finish 
a  story  which  had  long  occupied  me,  and  looking  upon 
the  snow  falling  and  the  passers  by,  while  my  little 
lads  prattled  beside  me,  these  words  came  to  me. 
When  the  children,  clamoring  suddenly  for  their  sup- 
per, were  set  down  to  their  bread  and  milk,  I  hastily 
wrote  in  pencil  the  verses,  and,  slipping  them  in  the 
morning  in  the  envelope  that  carried  my  story  to 
Harper's,  asked  the  Editor's  opinion  of  the  lines. 
Many  hopes  hung  on  the  story — the  verses  I  thought 
little  about — but  the  story  was  returned  and  a  check 
for  fifteen  dollars  for  the  poem!  The  story,  "True," 
was  afterward  sold  to  the  Christian  Union  for  seventy 
dollars. 


"HE  SHALL  GIVE  HIS  ANGELS  CHARGE 
CONCERNING  THEE.* 

OTUMBLING  I  walked  through  sand  and  miry 
^^^         clay, 

Bearing  two  lambs  of  my  far-scattered  flock — 
And  lo !  an  angel  met  me  in  the  way 

And  set  my  weary  feet  upon  a  rock. 

Across  my  path,  as  trembling  there  I  stood, 

There  roared  a  torrent,  dark  and  deep  and  wide — 

And  lo !  his  strong  hand  bridged  the  raging  flood. 
And  brought  us  safely  to  the  other  side. 

Through  a  dense  wood  I  fled,  contesting  hard 
With  hungry  wolves  the  burden  sweet  I  bore — 

And  lo  !  his  hand  clasped  mine,  bleeding  and  scarred. 
And  led  me  out  into  the  light  once  more. 

For  Care  and  Fear  and  Want  no  spectres  are, 
O,  thoughtless  children  ye  of  joy  and  mirth ! 

And  loving  heart  and  helping  hand  by  far 

The  brightest  angels  that  come  down  to  earth ! 


•  Written  in  Orchard  Street,  Newark,  where  I  spent 
some  dark  days  in  1875. 

[68] 


THE  REGATTA.* 

O  WIFT  as  an  arrow  from  the  archer  speeding, 

Up  the  smooth  stream  they  dart  toward  the 
goal; 
And  now  the  Red  and  now  the  Blue  is  leading — 
Ah!  which  shall  Fame  upon  her  lists  enroll? 

On,  on,  with  flash  of  oar,  and  pennons  streaming, 
Like  wild  birds  on  the  wing  they  skim  the  wave ; 

And  crimson  cheeks  and  blue  eyes  brightly  beaming 
Hang  proudly  forth  the  colors  of  the  brave. 

Mid  shout  and  cheer,  and  snowy  kerchiefs  flying, 
Now,  men  of  muscle,  show  what  you  can  do ! 

And  vigorous  arms  the  ashen  oars  are  plying 
Of  Grey,  and  Crimson,  White  and  Red  and  Blue. 

Honor  to  all  we  yield  in  loyal  duty. 

To  stout  young  arms  and  stouter  hearts  within ; 
On  every  color  smiles  fair  youth  and  beauty. 

Nor  are  the  bravest  always  those  who  win. 


[69] 


70  The  Regatta. 

Ah !  youth  and  strength,  life's  longer,  harder  races 
Are  yet  before  you, — up  then,  and  away ! 

Spring  to  your  oars  with  these  same  earnest  faces. 
And  pull  as  bravely  as  you  do  to-day. 

Off  with  all  trammels  and  life's  vain  disguises — 
To  lofty,  noble  aims  your  spirits  bend ! 

Snatch  from  the  hand  of  Fate  her  proudest  prizes, 
And  in  with  flying  colors  at  the  end ! 


*  To  which  I  was  invited  as  the  guest  of  the 
"Blues,"  and,  as  poet  of  the  occasion,  to  celebrate  in 
verse,  their  victory — which  they  didn't  win!  Nothing 
remained  for  the  minstrel  but  to  detract  (most  un- 
generously) from  the  honor  attained  by  the  rival 
crew.     See   last   line  of  the   fourth   stanza. 


THE  CRYSTAL  WEDDING.* 

TO   MR.   AND  MRS.    J.   DEYO   CHIPP. 

1860—1875. 

TV  7HILE  gathering  near  with  festive  cheer 
~"       Your  bounteous  board's  fair  spreading, 

The  task  is  mine  to  pour  the  wine, 
Our  toast— The  Crystal  Wedding ! 

How  crystal  clear  the  years  appear 

As  ye  two  look  them  over. 
Since  pledged  was  youth  and  love  and  truth 

To  happy  bride  and  lover. 

The  while  ye  gaze  ye  see  no  haze 

Of  storm  or  cloudy  weather, 
O'er  all  doth  shine  the  love  divine 

That  brought  ye  then  together. 

The  tears  that  fall,  the  cares  that  all 

Must  know,  howe'er  repining, 
Like  mists  that  pass  from  off  the  glass 

Beneath  the  sun's  bright  shining. 

[71] 


72  The  Crystal  Wedding. 

O  blessed  love,  that  lives  above, 
All  earthly  change  and  sorrow. 

Drives  clouds  away,  and  makes  to-day 
Sweet  promise  of  to-morrow ! 

Though  youth  has  fled,  with  some  joys  dead, 
Since  that  fair  summer  morning, 

Lo,  time  doth  bring  a  sweeter  spring. 
And  sweeter  hopes  are  dawning. 

The  little  band  that  'round  you  stand 
With  dearer  joys  have  crowned  you ; 

And  each  that  came  your  love  to  claim 
Brought  troops  of  angels  'round  you ! 

These  crystal  souls  your  life  controls 

Are  surely  love's  best  token; 
And  few,  aye  few,  can  claim,  like  you, 

A  circle  still  unbroken. 

Let  youth  here  see  what  love  can  be, 
Nor  hearts  nor  tongues  be  idle ! 

And  crystal  eyes  give  sweet  replies 
For  many  another  bridal ! 


The  Crystal  Wedding.  73 

And  now  to  you,  O  happy  two, 
Love's  flowery  path  still  treading, 

With  joy  we  come  to  fill  your  home, 
And  keep  your  crystal  wedding! 

And  much  we  pray,  this  marriage  day. 

Joining  new  years  and  olden, 
May  bid  love  wait  to  celebrate 

The  silver  and  the  golden ! 

And  when  at  last  earth's  love  is  past 

All  told  the  fair,  sweet  story, 
Lift  up  your  eyes  where  crystal  skies 

Reveal   love's  brighter  glory ! 

Kingston,  June  23,  1875. 


*  Written  for  my  brother  and  his  wife.  Something 
of  a  jing-le,  but,  read  on  the  occasion  in  crowded  par- 
lors, passed  off  very  well. 


THE  CLEANING  OF  THE  IVY.* 

/^VER  the  land  swept  a  great  desolation, 

That  carried  destruction  and  death  through 
the  world — 
The  dear  little  word  of  the  winged  creation, 

That   dwelt   where   the   ivy   leaves   twisted   and 
curled. 

Around  the  old  church,  through  the  winter  so  weary, 
The  sparrows  had  fluttered,  their  neighbors  to  tell 

Of  what  they  would  do  when  the  snow  king  so 
dreary 
Had  fled  on  spring  breezes  in  Greenland  to  dwell. 

At  last  came  the  sunny  and  bright  April  weather — 
What  a  musical  twitter  there  was  in  the  air. 

As  the  dear  little  housekeepers  clustered  together. 
Their  joys  and  their  sweet  little  secrets  to  share. 


[74] 


The  Cleaning  of  the  Ivy.  75 

Then  away  on  swift  wing  they  would  wander,  and 
certain 
With  thread  or  with  straw  would  each  wanderer 
come, 
And  slip  it  in  slyly  beneath  the  green  curtain 

That  hid  from  rude  gazers  each  dear  little  home. 

And  passing  the  church  on  a  bright  sunny  morning, 

With  a  heart  sorely  troubled  and  aching  with 

pain, 

Lo !  a  new  and  sweet  peace  on  my  darkness  seemed 

dawning, 

And  I  learned  from  the  birds  to  be  happy  again. 

But  when  I  next  went  to  my  dear  little  teachers,   ' 
To  ask  a  new  lesson  and  learn  to  be  led, 

I  found  that  the  helpless  and  innocent  creatures 
Needed  comfort  and  help  from  their  pupil  instead. 

For  lo !  a  rude  man  on  a  towering  ladder 

Was  cleaning  the  ivy  with  brush  and  with  broom ! 

Not  a  whit  did  he  care,  indeed  he  seemed  gladder, 
If  each  sweep  of  his  hand  tore  away  a  wee  home. 


76  The  Cleaning  of  the  Ivy. 

O    the    dear    little    birds,    how    they    scolded    and 
pleaded ! 

What  a  sorrowful  twitter  there  was  in  the  air ! 
But  the  rough,  cruel  man  not  a  note  of  it  heeded — 

What  mattered  to  him  all  their  grief  and  despair? 

As  down  in  the  grass  each  little  nest  tumbled, 
A  new  little  cry  seemed  to  come  from  each  heart, 

And  I  felt  in  their  presence  as  shamefully  humbled 
As  if  in  the  outrage  my  hand  had  a  part. 

O,  dear  little  spirits  of  song  and  of  gladness ! 

Hard  fate  has  been  cruel  to  you  and  to  me ; 
But  you  will  forget,  little  friends,  all  your  sadness, 

And  build  a  new  nest  in  yon  new  greener  tree. 

But  alas !    In  my  heart  cruel  Fate's  sharper  arrows 
Have  left  deeper  wounds,  and  my  night  has  no 
dawn. 

Ah,  would  it  be  wiser,  if  hearts,  like  the  sparrows, 
Could  build  a  new  nest  when  the  old  one  is  gone  ? 

Newark,  1876i 

•  Written  for  the  children.  The  chief  interest  at- 
tached to  it  Is  the  fact  that,  Introduced  to  a  stranger 
some  time  after,  he  took  a  copy  of  the  verses  from 
his  pocket-book,  not  knowing  till  then  the  author. 


GREETING  TO  A  SOUTHERN  BRIDE. 


MRS.    B.    W.    HUNT,    OF    GEORGIA. 


TV  7ELCOME  Northward  with  the  Springtime 
^^       Filling  all  our  land  with  bloom, 
Singing  birds  and  balmy  zephyrs, — 
Welcome,  Southern  stranger,  home ! 


Fair  your  land,  and  rich  the  treasure 

Nature's  lavish  hand  bestows ; 
But  here  also  gleams  her  beauty, 

Waves  her  green  and  blooms  her  rose ! 

Northern  fields  have  donned  their  brightest 
Emerald  robes  to  welcome  you ! 

Northern  skies  now  smile  as  sunny 
As  your  cloudless  dome  of  blue ! 

Northern  hands  can  clasp  as  warmly, 
Northern  hearts  can  love  as  well; 

Northern  lips  the  same  sweet  story 
With  the  same  fond  fervor  tell ! 

[77] 


78  Greeting  to  a  Southern  Bride. 

Trust  the  Northron,  then,  sweet  stranger, 
Lay  your  hand  in  his  and  come — 

Welcome,  welcome  to  the  Northland ! 
Welcome,  dear,  to  love  and  home ! 

Newark,  May,  1876, 


ROSES  AND  CYPRESS.* 

C'LOATING  on  Broadway's  lazy  tide 
"*■        Mid  thoughts  that  idly  rove, 
There  sweeps  in  beauty  by  my  side 
A  young  and  fair  and  girlish  bride, 
Wearing  her  robes  with  royal  grace, 
And  bearing  on  her  sunny  face 
The  light  of  happy  love. 

And  close  beside  her,  sad  and  slow, 
With  wearied  step  and  air, 
Another's  garments  shadows  throw, — 
The  trailing  weeds  of  widow's  woe. 
Declaring  with  a  mournful  grace 
The  fate  that  on  her  sweet,  young  face 
Pale  Grief  has  written  there. 

And,  as  with  tearful  glance,  yet  kind. 
She  passes  on  her  way. 
Her  sweeping  veil  floats  out  behind. 
And,  caught  upon  the  morning  wind, 

[79] 


80  Roses  and  Cypress. 

Enshrouds  within  its  gloomy  fold 
The  radiant  brow  whose  locks  of  gold 
Sweet  Love  but  crowned  today. 

And  as  I  see  the  bright,  young  thing 
Look  out  with  laughing  eye, 
Yet  closer  to  his  side  still  cling 
Who  from  all  ills  defence  can  bring, 
I  tremble  lest  on  that  fair  brow 
Where  orange  blossoms  flutter  now, 
The  widow's  crepe  may  lie. 

And  walking  on  in  gloom  apart 
Life's  mystery  to  prove, 
"O,  Love !"  I  cry,  "O,  woman's  heart 
Whose  very  life  and  soul  thou  art. 
Wait  ye  for  heaven's  'diviner  air,' 
Ye'll  surely  find  your  rapture  there, 
For  God  himself  is  Love." 


♦  Dr.  Holland  thought  he  would  take  It  for  Scrlb- 
ner's,  and  then  he  thought  he  wouldn't!  Published  In 
Christian  at  Work,  Dr.  Talmage's  paper. 


UNTIMELY. 

/^  CLOUDY  skies,  still  weeping  on 
^^     From  morn  till  noon,  from  noon  to  night 
Still  from  your  dark  and  gloomy  height 
Pouring  your  ceaseless  tear-drops  down. 

Hath  some  great  grief  o'ertaken  thee, 

0  spirit  of  the  stormy  wind? 
And  dost  thou  consolation  find 
Sweet  Nature's  sympathy  to  see? — 

Poor  mother  earth  drenched  with  thy  woe. 
The  tear-wet  grass,  the  dripping  trees. 
The  drooping  grain,  the  moaning  breeze, 
The  broken-hearted  flowers  bowed  low? 

O,  spirit  of  the  storm,  forgive 

That  my  heart  cannot  share  thy  pain ! 

Mid  all  thy  gloom  and  tears  of  rain 

1  find  it  sweet  and  fair  to  live. 

[81] 


82  Untimely. 

There  was  a  time  my  tears  did  flow 
As  fast  and  free  as  thine  to-day ; 
I  wept  the  days  and  nights  away — 
Thou  hadst  no  pity  for  my  woe. 

The  mocking  sun  shone  thro'  the  trees, 
The  skies  with  clearest  blue  were  spread, 
While  hope  and  joy  for  me  seemed  dead ; 
Why  were  not  those  day§  like  to  these? 

Why  did  my  grief  not  waken  thine? 
Why,  with  bright  life,  face  my  dark  death  ? 
Why  foundst  not  then  thy  sobbing  breath, 
And  mingled  thy  wild  tears  with  mine? 

But  when  I  am  no  longer  sad. 
And  life  once  more  with  hope  doth  bloom, 
Lo,  thou  dost  shroud  me  with  thy  gloom, 
And  frown  and  weep  to  see  me  glad. 

Come,  drive  thy  gloomy  clouds  away. 
And  look  with  brighter  eyes  in  mine ; 
For  I  am  glad,  come  rain  or  shine — 
I  cannot  weep  with  thee  to-day ! 


LEFT  FROM  THE  WRECK.* 

/^^OME  hither,  my  baby,  my  sweet  yearling  lamb, 
^^     My  poor  rain-drenched  blossom,  my  storm- 
gathered  pearl ; 
All  broken  and  blighted  and  wrecked,  as  I  am, 

I've  a  remnant  of  life  still  in  thee,  baby  girl. 
Yet  the  fine  gold  is  dimmed  of  each  fair  flossy  curl. 

And  the  tears  in  my  eyes  shadow  thine  in  eclipse : 
Would  Heaven  each  tear  were  ten  curses,  to  hurl — 

Nay,  kiss  me,  my  baby,  and  seal  my  rash  lips ! 

Aye,  kiss  me,  my  beautiful ;  soothe  my  wild  heart, 
And  cling,   O   sweet  burden,   cling  close  to   my 
breast, 
W^here  nothing  shall  part  us — nay,  why  dost  thou 
start  ? 
Dost  catch  from  within  the  turmoil  and  unrest? 
And  now  thou  art  laughing  as  'twere  some  gay  jest, 

Such  frolic  as  mother  and  baby  delight 
Who  watch  with  glad  eyes  for  the  one  they  love 
best. 
Whose  coming  makes  day  of  each   love-lighted 
night. 

[83] 


84  Left  From  the  Wreck. 

None  come  to  us,  darling;  so  rest  thee  again, 

While  softly  I  sing  in  the  fast-fading  light. 
To  the  tune  of  the  sorrowful,  pattering  rain. 

Of  one  star  that  rose  bright  on  my  desolate  night ; 
Of  one  blossom  snatched  from  the  storm  and  the 
blight ; 

Of  one   treasure   left   on   my   young  life's   bleak 
shore. 
When  the  tempest  swept  o'er  it  in  terror  and  might. 

And  youth,  hope,  and  happiness  fled  in  an  hour. 

The   garden,   my  blossom,   where   first  thou   didst 
bloom, 

Was  sunny  and  verdant  as  Love  ever  grew; 
Its  roses,  the  reddest,  shed  sweeter  perfume 

Than  the  vale  of  Cashmere  in  its  glory  e'er  knew. 
And  laving  the  sward  with  their  shimmering  blue 

Were  the  sun-lighted  waves  of  a  radiant  sea, 
Where  I  gathered  the  blossoms,  all  wet  with  the 
dew. 

Or  laughed  with  the  ripples  that  broke  on  the  lea. 

But  an  Eden  like  this  ne'er  to  mortal  was  given 
But  the  curse  on  earth's  children  would  find  it  at 
last; 


Left  From  the  Wreck.  85 

Its  blossoms  were  swept  to  the  four  winds  of 
Heaven, 

And  the  wild  waters  echoed  the  shriek  of  the  blast, 
As  I  fled,  tempest-driven,  forlorn  and  aghast, 

One  flower  to  my  heart  I  held  thornless  and  sweet ; 
As  the  mad  waves  pursued  me,  remorseless  and  fast, 

I  stooped  for  one  pearl  they  had  left  at  my  feet. 

Calm  now,  and  passionless — hope  itself  fled — 

I  gaze  on  my  garden's  bare,  desolate  ground. 
With  eyes  that  no  longer  have  tears  to  be  shed. 

With  heart  that  no  other  can  torture  or  wound. 
Like  a  beggar  in  rags,  with  a  diadem  crowned, 

I  sit  with  my  child  on  my  desolate  hearth ; 
And,  with  all  I  have  lost,  thank  God  I  have  found 

One  link  of  the  chain  that  binds  Heaven  to  earth ! 


*  Thereby  hangs  a  tale  of  my  literary  experience. 
In  the  first  place,  it  was  my  first  effort  to  write  "out- 
side" of  my  own  experience.  "Come  out  of  yourself," 
said  an  editorial  friend,  "and  give  us  something  new." 
A  divorced  wife  with  a  little  daughter  was  about  as 
opposite  an  experience  to  my  own  as  I  could  find. 
Under  the  title  of  "Divorced,"  I  sent  it  to  Harper's, 
and  it  was  returned.  Disappointed,  I  threw  it  in  my 
desk,  and  a  year  after  sold  it  to  Baldwin's  Monthly 
for  $10.  The  editor  desiring  a  new  title,  I  sent  it  to 
the  editor  of  Harper's,  who  was  a  personal  friend  by 
that  time,  and  requested  him  to  name  it,  telling  its 
destination.  He  immediately  wanted  it  for  the  Maga- 
zine, and  declared  it  impossible  that  he  had  ever  re- 
jected ii.  Baldwin's,  however,  would  not  give  it  up, 
and  thereby  I  lost  in  both  money  and  so  much  of  fame! 


IN  TWO  WORLDS.* 

W  ZHILE  in  this  bleak  world  I  tarry, 

^^       In  another  world  I  live; 
While  this  life's  sore  cross  I  carry, 

Wear  the  crown  that  life  doth  give, 
There  I  find  in  full  completeness 

All  the  joys  that  cheat  me  here ; 
There  life's  flowers  keep  all  their  sweetness, 

Blighted  not  by  frost  or  tear. 

There  the  light  is  ever  golden; 

There  no  night  with  chilling  dew ; 
There  the  happy  years  and  olden 

Meet  the  happy  days  and  new; 
There  no  storm  clouds  ever  gather. 

Drenching  all  my  garden  ground ; 
There  the  sunny  summer  weather 

Of  the  heart  is  ever  found. 

There  the  true  and  tender-hearted 
Meet  me  from  the  farther  shore; 

There  the  loved  and  long  departed 
Take  me  to  their  hearts  once  more ; 

[86] 


In  Two  Worlds.  87 

There  the  ties  that  years  have  broken 
(Life,  like  death,  can  part  as  well) 

Are  renewed,  and  sweet  words  spoken 
Mortal  tongues  may  never  tell. 

There  are  hearts  and  souls  unfettered, 

Earth's  conventions  far  above ; 
There  the  wise  and  the  unlettered 

Meet  upon  the  plane  of  love ; 
There  to  prisoned  souls  is  given 

All  the  truth  that  sets  them  free; 
There  is  light  and  warmth  and  Heaven, 

There  is  love  and  liberty. 

Blessed  land  of  the  ideal ! 

Blessed  life  my  soul  doth  live ! 
Blessed  world !  the  true,  the  real ; 

This  the  shadow  that  doth  give. 
Spread,  O  human  hearts,  your  pinions ! 

Rise  to  all  that's  fair  and  sweet! 
That  is  Life's  own  bright  dominions, 

This  the  clouds  beneath  our  feet. 


*  A  favorite  with  me  once — it  seems  rather  trans- 
cendental now.  It  has  more  meaning-  to  myself,  prob- 
ably, than  another,  as  I  understand  aU  the  references 
made,  many  friends  being  thought  of  in  the  third  and 
fourth  stanzas. 


REMEMBRANCE. 

*^Ifon  my  grave  the  summer  grass  were  growing, 
Or  cheerless  wintry  winds  around  it  blowing, 
Through  joyous  June  or  desolate  December, 
How  long,  sweetheart,  how  long  would  you  remember? 
How  long,  dear  love,  how  long?" 


T^OR   years,    dear   love,   the    grasses   have   been 
*■•  growing 

Above  thy  grave,  and  wintry  winds  been  blowing, 
Through  joyous  June  and  desolate  December, 
And  still  I  weep,  still  love,  and  still  remember — 
So  long,  dear  love,  so  long. 

And  on  through  all  the  coming  years  so  dreary. 
Life's  long,  lone  path,  so  rough,  sweetheart,  and 

weary ; 
Life  has  no  June,  but,  through  its  bleak  December, 
So  long,  sweetheart,  so  long  will  I  remember — 
So  long,  dear  love,  so  long. 


[881 


Remembrance.  89 

Until  I  reach  that  shore  where  naught  shall  sever 
Hearts  that  love  once  and  that  once  is  forever; 
The  summer  land  where  comes  no  chill  December, 
So  long,  sweetheart,  so  long  will  I  remember — 
So  long,  dear  love,  so  long. 


A  CURL.* 


WHEN    BERTIE    WAS    SHORN   OF    HIS    LONG    CURLS    ON 
HIS   EIGHTH   BIRTHDAY. 


A     TWINING  ringlet  of  golden  hair, 
^    ^      Soft  and  silken  and  bright  and  fair, 

Lies  in  my  open  hand. 
And  my  eyes  grow  dim  as  I  see  it  there — 
That  beautiful  curl  of  sunny  hair, 

Each  thread  a  golden  strand. 

'Twas  cut  from  a  brow  where  many  more 
Clustered  and  gathered,  a  golden  store 

A  miser's  coffers  might  fill ; 
From  a  fair  young  head  that  oft  was  blessed 
By  "a  vanished  hand,"  and  hushed  to  rest 

With  the  sound  of  "a  voice  that  is  still, 

The  hand  so  tender,  true  and  strong, 
That  gently  guided  mine  along 
Life's  bright  and  flowery  way; 

[90] 


A  Curl.  91 

The  voice  I  never  more  may  hear, 
In  tones  of  love  to  smooth  and  cheer 
The  path  so  rough  to-day. 

"And  the  child  is  not?"  you  softly  say; 

Nay,  Death  when  he  blighted  my  life  that  day, 

In  pity  left  one  joy; 
And  close  to  my  lonely  pillow  to-night 
Will  nestle  the  golden  head  so  bright 

Of  my  fair-haired,  fatherless  boy. 

Newark,  August  5,  1876. 


*  In  connection  with  this  poem  my  mother  used  to 
relate  an  incident  which  illustrated  the  wonderful  un- 
selfishness of  my  brother's  character.  As  a  child  he 
wore  long-,  golden  curls,  which  she  so  loved  that  she 
would  not  let  them  be  cut  off  until  he  was  eight 
years  old — not  realizing  the  terrible  trial  and  morti- 
fication they  were  to  him.  His  eighth  birthday,  when 
the  curls  were  to  be  shorn,  was  long-  looked  forward 
to,  but  on  the  way  to  the  barber's  he  noticed  how  sad 
mother  was,  and,  stopping  at  the  door,  he  drew  her 
back  and  said,  "Mamma,  if  you  feel  so  very  badly  about 
it,  I  guess  I  can  stand  it  to  wear  them  another  year!" 
Mother  was  always  g-lad  to  remember  she  did  not  take 
advantage  of  this  offer, — C.  H.  B, 


ANOTHER  WAY. 

pERHAPS  you've  heard  the  story 

•■•        Of  Little  Benny  Gray, 

Who  learned  'twas  sad  and  shocking 

Such  naughty  words  to  say, 
(A  habit  much  to  be  deplored 

In  any,  old  or  young), 
And  how  his  mother  cured  him. 

Putting  mustard  on  his  tongue  ? 

This  drew  out  all  the  poison 

The  naughty  words  left  there. 
But  the  process  was  so  painful 

Master  Benny  didn't  care 
To  have  it  oft  repeated ; 

And  -so,  you  see,  'tis  plain 
He  never  let  the  wicked  words 

Come  near  his  lips  again. 

[92] 


Another  Way.  93 

Now  I  know  of  another  way, 

And  I  will  tell  it  here, 
For  those  who  think  the  mustard  cure 

A  little  too  severe; 
It  is  not  pleasant,  though,  of  course ; 

But  then,  you  may  be  sure. 
The  disease  not  being  pleasant. 

Why,  so  neither  is  the  cure. 

There  is  a  little  boy  I  know — 

Indeed,  I  know  him  well; 
His  name,  for  certain  reasons,  though, 

I  do  not  care  to  tell — 
Whose  mother  heard  him  say,  one  day. 

While  playing  on  the  floor. 
Some  words  that  from  his  little  lips 

Had  never  dropped  before. 

I  sprang  up  from  my  chair — 

At  least  his  mother  did,  I  mean — 
Such  fear  and  horror  in  her  face 

Had  never  there  been  seen ! 
She  dashed  out  from  the  room  in  haste. 

Returning  on  the  spot 
With  basin,  soap-dish,  brush  and  sponge. 

And  water  steaming  hot. 


94  Another  Way. 

Meanwhile  the  little  boy  looked  on 

With  wondering  surprise, 
Wide  open  was  the  little  mouth, 

Wider  the  big  blue  eyes. 
Then  mother's  soapy  fingers  caught 

The  pretty  dimpled  chin. 
And  straight  between  the  rosy  lips 

The  smoking  sponge  went  in ! 

And  soon  with  sud?  the  little  mouth 

Was  brimming,  bubbling  o'er. 
And  covered  all  his  cheeks  and  chin 

Like  sea-foam  on  the  shore; 
While  great  big  tears  fell  from  his  eyes 

Like  drops  of  morning  dew, 
And  still  his  mother  rubbed  and  scrubbed 

With  sponge  and  tooth  brush,  too. 

At  last,  with  one  full  breath  that  seemed 

A  sigh  of  hope,  or  fear. 
She  rinsed  it  well  with  water 

That  was  pure  and  bright  and  clear; 
Then  took  the  towel  from  his  neck. 

Where  she  had  tucked  it  in. 
And  wiped  the  brimming  eyes,  wet  cheeks, 

And  quivering  little  chin; 


Another  Way.  95 

And  kissing  close  the  rosy  mouth, 

That  now  was  sweet  and  clean, 
"I  hope,"  she  said,  "it  never  will 

Need  such  a  bath  again !" 
"Oh,  no,  mamma,  Fm  sure  it  won't," 

And  then  upon  her  breast 
The  little  sobbing  head  was  laid. 

And  warmly,  closely  pressed. 

'Twas  very  hard  and  sad,  I  know. 

But  of  this,  too,  I'm  sure : 
It  wrought,  with  some  outlay  of  soap 

And  tears,  a  perfect  cure. 
And  when  you  want  to  see  a  mouth 

"Just  sweet  enough  to  kiss," 
Look  where  you  like,  you  will  not  find 

A  sweeter  one  than  this ! 


HEART  SEARCHINGS. 

T^HERE  hangs  a  picture  in  my  little  room 

Of  a  face  that  is  tender  and  strong  and  true, 
Where  in  wintriest  days  sweet  roses  bloom, 
And  in  summer  violets  wet  with  dew, — 
Love's  dearest,  purest,  holiest  shrine. 
The  one  bright  spot  in  this  room  of  mine. 

To-day,  a  friend  before  it,  soft  and  mild, 

In  words  as  soft  and  mild  did  sweetly  speak, 

"  'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost" — she  smiled. 
And  left  the  rest  in  tears  upon  my  cheek — 

Her  fate  than  mine  still  being  bitterer  far, 

As  drops  of  gall  than  common  tear-drops  are. 

To-night,  alone,  beneath  that  pictured  face, 
I'm  gazing  back  into  my  blessed  past, 

Live  o'er  those  days,  so  brief,  of  "tender  grace" 
(Love's  dream  when  perfect  rarely  long  doth  last), 

Then  lift  again  the  present's  heavy  cross. 

This  weight  of  loneliness  and  grief  and  loss. 


[96] 


Heart  Searchings.  97 

Nay,  nay,  my  heart,  be  just  in  all  thy  woe. 
And  here,  to-night,  take  measure  of  thy  pain ! 

All  joy  from  life  hath  fled?    Full  well  I  know 
That  bliss  like  thine  can  ne'er  return  again, 

Thy  sun  hath  truly  set;  but  through  the  night 

The  clear  o'er-arching  blue  with  stars  is  bright ! 

Strong  hands  grasp  thine,  and  tender  voices  still 
Make  soft  the  wind  with  words  of  holy  cheer, 

And  little  hearts  and  hands  their  life  fulfill 

By  bringing  Heaven's  life  to  thine  more  near. 

As  lily-cups  may  shed  night's  purest  dew 

Upon  the  parent  stem  from  which  they  grew. 

Nay,  shrink  not  from  me  yet,  but  at  my  feet 
Own  all  thy  selfishness  with  all  thy  pain; 

Own  with  thy  griefs  thy  compensations  sweet, 
Nor  call  that  loss  that  I  shall  prove  thy  gain. 

Can  love  be  lost?    Can  light,  can  truth,  can  Heaven? 

If  love  be  lost,  then  'twere  not  love  was  given. 

But  love's  expression,  and  its  tender  care? 

Nay,  even"  these,  poor  heart,  are  still  thine  own ! 
Rise  from  earth's  damps  to  Heaven's  "diviner  air;" 

Breathe,  live,  and  know  thou  never  art  alone ! 
That  watchful  love  doth  guard  and  guide  thee  still, 
Let  tired  feet  go  wandering  where  they  will. 


98  Heart  Searchings. 

And  failing  thus  to  lift  thy  spirit  thence, 
This  same  dear  love,  in  pity  for  thy  woe. 

Doth  pierce  at  times  the  blinding  veil  of  sense, 
And  teach  thee,  thou  of  little  faith,  to  know 

By  touch  and  tone,  though  soft  as  zephyr's  breath. 

Both  life  and  love  may  pass  unchanged  thro'  death. 

No  loss,  then,  hast  thou  suffered.    And  thy  gain? 

Learning  to  walk  by  faith,  and  not  by  sight ! 
Transmuting  into  heavenly  joys  earth's  pain ! 

Battling  with  self  and  conquering  in  the  fight! 
Then  by  death's  golden  ladder  to  arise 
From  heaven  on  earth  to  Heaven  beyond  the  skies ! 


IN  MEMORIAM.* 


"Set  my  shoes  where  I  will  find  them  when  I  wake  in  the 
morning,"  said  the  child,  going  to  his  nighVs  rest  after  the 
first  *  'getting  up, ' '  and  happy  with  childish  delight  at  the 
prospect  of  convalescence. 


/^  LONELY  little  shoon  that  wait 
^^     In  vain  the  owner's  waking, 
Oh,  dreary  dawn  of  cloudy  morn 
Where  lonely  hearts  are  aching. 

Oh,  boyish  feet  that  skipped  alike 
O'er  grassy  path  or  gravel. 

Ye  cast  off  soon  your  little  shoon, 
Weary  of  earthly  travel. 

Oh,  empty  little  shoon  that  tell 
The  empty  home's  sad  story. 

Tell  how  the  feet  walk  now  the  street 
Of  heavenly,  golden  glory. 

[99] 


100  In  Memoriam. 

Speak,  empty  shoon,  and  tell  sad  hearts 
Where  now  the  child  is  staying, 

Speak  of  the  Hand  in  that  bright  land 
That  keeps  the  feet  from  straying. 

Oh,  happy,  happy  little  feet; 

Oh,  happy  children  taken ! 
For  those  that  stay  may  walk  a  way, 

Of  hope  and  Heaven  forsaken. 

A  rugged  path  is  life  at  best. 
The  heavenly  heights  ascending. 

With  toilsome  steep  and  pitfalls  deep 
Between  us  and  the  ending. 

Then  guard,  O  parent  heart,  and  love 
The  children  God  hath  given. 

But  scarcely  dare  to  shed  one  tear 
For  those  He  takes  to  Heaven. 


•  Little  Ted  Reeves,  who  died  of  scarlet  fever  just 
as  my  boys  were  recovering;  their  playfellow  and 
little  neighbor — Vanderpool  Street,  Newark,  1877. 


A  SEPTENNIAL  SONNET.* 

MARCH   19. 

/^NCE    more    comes    round    the    dreaded    day, 

^^     Beloved, 

That  rent  my  happy,  loving  heart  in  twain, 

And  taught  me  all  the  bitter,  bitter  pain 

Of  that  dear  love,  whose  joys  I  scarce  had  proved 

When  from  my  straining  sight  thou  wast  removed, 

And  my  wild  heart  God's  goodness  did  arraign. 

Yet  hath  not  the  hard  lesson  been  in  vain. 

Since  now  I  see  how  well  it  Him  behooved 

To  put  Himself  between  us,  and  so  stand 

That  my  heart,  turning  to  the  same  dear  place 

It  ever  turned  to  hearken  love's  command. 

Should  meet,  instead  of  thine,  His  close  embrace ; 

Content  to  know  He  yet  will  lay  my  hand 

Once  more  in  thine,  and  bring  us  face  to  face. 


Newark,  1877. 

*  Pronounced  by  critic  friend  of  Harper's,  "as  a 
piece  of  literary  work  simply  faultless"  !  "Approbation 
from  Sir  Hubert  Stanley  is  praise  indeed"!  I  wrote  it 
however,  with  my  heart,  not  with  my  head. 


[101] 


JOSEPH  JEFFERSON. 

O  LOW  gently,  breezes  soft  and  fair, 
•"^       Roll  westward,  waves  of  foam. 
Guard  well,  O  ship,  the  treasures  rare — 
Bring  the  long  absent  home ! 

Within  the  Empire  City's  gate, 
With  hearts  that  beat  as  one. 

Ten  thousand  loyal  people  wait, 
To  welcome  Jefferson. 

Lovers  of  art,  who  only  know 

The  artist  and  the  name. 
Who  fondly  crowned  him  years  ago 

With  laurel  wreath  of  fame, 

And  hundreds  of  warm  eager  hands 
That  claim  him  for  a  friend, 

Far  out  beyond  the  ocean's  sands 
Their  loving  welcome  send. 

[102] 


Joseph  Jefferson.  103 

And  could  we  put  a  greeting  song 

On  lips  that  fain  would  sing, 
From  what  a  mixed  and  motley  throng 

Would  the  loud  welcome  ring! 

Orphaned  and  widowed,  helpless,  poor. 

The  friendless  and  forlorn, 
Would  stand  in  groups  upon  the  shore 

To  welcome  Jefferson. 

And  viewless  spirits  of  the  air. 

In  beautiful  array — 
But  they  are  with  him  everywhere 

And  guard  him  night  and  day — 

Spirits  of  Love  and  Faith  and  Hope, 

The  pure,  the  true,  the  good. 
That  taught  his  kindred  heart  the  scope 

Of  man's  true  brotherhood. 

O,  we  are  proud  who  love  him  well. 

That  honors  he  hath  won 
Will  yet  to  future  ages  tell 

The  name  of  Jefferson, 


104  Joseph  Jefferson. 

But  better  than  all  earthly  fame, 
In  Heaven's  diviner  air, 

Is  writ  in  light  the  radiant  name 
By  which  they  know  him  there. 

Newark,  1877. 


THE  LAST  SNOW  MAN. 

OUR  garden  was  covered  with  snow  one  March 
day, 
And  my  two  little  boys,  on  the  carpet  at  play. 
Cried,  "Let  us  go  out,  mamma — say  that  we  can — 
And  build  on  the  lawn  there  a  great  big  snow  man !" 

So,  muffled  in  mittens,  and  leggins,  and  tippets. 
And  what  little  Bud  calls  their  "welwet  ear-clappets," 
In  full  winter  harness,  my  gay  little  span 
Went  off  on  a  gallop  to  "build"  their  snow  man. 

With  many  a  tumble  and  loud,  merry  shout, 
They  rolled  the  big  snow-balls  around  and  about, 
Till  Jack  Frost  had  pinched  both  their  fingers  and 

toes, 
And  little  Bud's  cheeks  were  as  red  as — his  nose ! 

Then  coming  in,  "Now  he  is  all  done,"  they  said, 
"If  Uncle  John  only  would  stick  on  his  head." 
So  Uncle  John  made  him  a  head,  and  a  hat. 
And  eyes,  and  a  nose,  and  a  mouth,  and  all  that, 

[105] 


106  The  Last  Snow  Man. 

Put  buttons  of  charcoal  all  down  his  white  vest, 
And  a  stick  in  the  hand  that  was  crossed  on  his 

breast ; 
And  the  boys  went  as  happy  as  kings  to  their  bed — 
"Our  snow  man  shall  stand  there  all  summer,"  they 

said. 

But  next  morning  old  Sol — that,  you  know,  means 

the  sun — 
Peeped  out  from  the  sky,  "Now,"  said  he,  "I'll  have 

fun; 
Just  look  at  that  white  slave  of  winter !     How  dare 
He  be  chilling  and  spoiling  my  balmy  spring  air?" 

So  he  broke  both  his  arms,  and  he  bit  off  his  nose, 
Shot  his  bright  arrows  through  him  way  down  to 

his  toes. 
Then  poured  water  over  him,  too,  till  he  ran 
As  fast  as  he  could  out  of  sight,  the  poor  man ! 

And  when  my  two  laddies  came  home  the  next  day — 
For  they  had  been  gone  on  a  visit  away — 
What  do  you  suppose  (now  just  guess  if  you  can) 
They  thought  had  become  of  their  great  big  snow 
man? 


THE  ANGEL'S  GIFT. 

To   MRS.    F.    W. 

A  BRIGHT  and  gleaming  angel 
Stopped  on  his  starlit  way; 
There,  on  her  peaceful  pillow, 
A  happy  dreamer  lay. 

"Sweet  heart,"  he  softly  whispered, 
"A  mighty  power  is  mine ; 

Ask  what  thou  most  desirest — 
Speak,  and  the  boon  is  thine ! 

"I'll  deck  thy  hand  with  diamonds, 
Place  gems  upon  thy  brow, 

Within  thy  home  the  tokens 
Of  boundless  wealth  bestow; 

"Or,  brimming  high  with  pleasure, 
I'll  fill  thy  cup  each  day. 

And  scatter  thornless  roses 
Along  thy  happy  way. 

[107] 


I 


108  The  Angel's  Gift. 

"Or  speak,  and  I  will  weave  thee 
That  crown  of  woman's  life — 

A  happy  love — and  hail  thee 
A  loved  and  loving  wife." 

Then  first  she  made  him  answer, 
"O  angel  bright  and  fair, 

That  best  of  all  life's  treasures 
Is  given  to  my  care. 

"Love,  too,  has  blessed  with  plenty 
My  basket  and  my  store, 

And  crowned  my  days  with  gladness 
Till  I  can  ask  no  more. 

"My  happy  heart  forever 

One  long,  sweet  song  is  singing, 

No  gift  you  now  could  bring  me 
Seems  worthy  of  the  bringing." 

Smiling,  the  angel  vanished, 
And  with  the  parting  gleam. 

Waking,  she  softly  murmured, 
"O  strange  and  happy  dream  !" 

Months  passed,  and  when  June's  roses 

Scented  the  dewy  morn, 
Unto  this  wife  so  happy 

A  little  babe  was  born. 


The  Angel's  Gift.  109 

Unseen,  the  same  fair  angel 

Within  the  chamber  stood, 
And  thus  was  consecrated 

The  gift  of  motherhood. 

Months  passed  again,  and  daily 

The  child  in  beauty  grew, 
Until  from  eyes  of  azure 

The  soul  is  looking  through ; 

Then  as  the  happy  mother 

Hums  o'er  some  baby  air. 
She  turns,  and  lo !  the  angel 

Of  her  sweet  dream  is  there ! 

"Drawn  by  the  heavenly  sweetness 
Of  this  new  song  you're  singing, 

I  come  to  ask  if  love's  last  gift 
Proves  worthy  of  the  bringing." 

With  eyes  by  love  enkindled. 

With  heart  to  rapture  woke. 
Both  heart  and  eyes  o'erflowing. 

The  happy  mother  spoke : 

"O  angel,  ever  blessed. 

No  words  that  tongue  can  frame 
Can  tell  my  soul's  deep  rapture. 

Or  give  this  joy  a  name, 


no  The  Angel's  Gift. 

"Which  came  when  all  was  brightness, 
To  bless  my  life  still  more, 

And  fill  to  overflowing 
The  cup  so  full  before ! 

"O,  tell  me,  blessed  spirit. 
While  at  thy  feet  I  kneel, 

What  gift  my  hands  can  offer 
To  speak  the  praise  I  feel !" 

"Nay,  He  who  gives,  gives  freely. 

And  asketh  no  return. 
Yet  let  this  holy  lesson 

Thy  grateful  spirit  learn — 

"Yea,  let  it  come  with  mighty 
And  all-prevailing  power. 

And  this  sweet  baby-teacher 
Impress  it  every  hour — 

"That  if  ye,  being  evil. 

Such  tenderness  can  know. 

How  much  more  shall  thy  Father 
His  wealth  of  love  bestow ! 

"And  this  that  floods  thy  spirit. 
Vast  as  the  boundless  sea, 

Is  but  the  dim  reflection 
Of  what  He  feels  for  thee !" 


MY  MOTHER  CHURCH. 

jV  /f  Y  Mother  Church !   That  heard  my  early  vows, 
Guarded   my   youth   and   blessed   my   riper 
years, 
Laid  thy  kind  hand  upon  my  children's  brows, 
Heightened  my  joys  and  sanctified  my  tears, — 

Far  have  we  wandered  from  thy  sheltering  arms. 
At  stern  behest  of  life's  and  duty's  call; 

Yet  in  the  midst  of  cares  and  all  alarms 
We  feel  thy  blessing  still  upon  us  fall. 

Lengthen  thy  cords  and  strengthen  all  thy  stakes! 

Forever  still  thy  life  and  power  increase ! 
Still  soothe  the  hearts  that  sin  or  sorrow  breaks. 

And  to  life's  weary  ones  bring  rest  and  peace. 


[Ill] 


AN  EASTERN  LEGEND. 

C'ROM  Esdraelon  to  Nazareth 
''•      The  lowly  Jesus  meekly  trod, 
Walking  with  weary,  sandalled  feet 
The  hilly,  hot  and  dusty  road. 

His  eyes  were  raised  where  Hermon  rears 
Its  snow-crowned  head  against  the  blue. 
With  thoughtful,  earnest  gaze  that  seemed 
To  pierce  the  distant  azure  through. 

The  crowd  that  followed  for  the  sake 
Of  signs  and  wonders  to  be  seen, 
"Murmured  among  themselves,"  or  walked 
With  doubting,  curious,  sullen  mien. 

At  last,  with  Pharisaic  pride 
They  turn  with  scornful  feet  away 
Where  a  dead  dog  across  their  path 
Beneath  the  evening  shadows  lay. 

[112] 


An  Eastern  Legend.  113 

The  Master  paused,  the  uplifted  eyes 
Turn  from  the  distant  vision  sweet, 
And  shed  their  heavenly,  glorious  light 
On  the  dead  carrion  at  His  feet. 

Nothing  too  low  to  win  His  gaze, 
Nothing  too  vile  His  heart  to  move, 
On  lowest  forms  of  life  there  fall 
The  beams  of  heavenly  light  and  love. 

Words  of  disgust  and  loathing  scorn 
By  Jewish  lips  are  freely  shed. 
The  Savior  turns  with  gentle  smile, 
"How  white  its  teeth,"  He  softly  said. 

Teach  us,  O  human  Heart  divine, 

To  follow  in  Thy  gracious  ways. 

And  in  all  human  forms,  at  least, 

To  find  some  good,  some  cause  for  praise. 


APRIL  SNOW. 

/^  VER  the  maple  buds  drifts  the  cold  snow, 
^^      Chilling  the  life  that  was  ready  to  bloom, 
O'er  iipspringing  grasses  the  icy  drifts  blow. 
Driving  them  back  to  their  dark  wintry  tomb. 

Birds  from  their  sunny  lands  hasting  away 
Turn  on  the  wing  as  they  meet  our  chill  air. 

Sunbeams  that  brightened  the  fair  April  day 

Trembling   through    clouds   and   then   vanishing 
there. 

So,  in  my  heart  buds  of  hope  were  upspringing. 
Fresh  in  the  sunlight,  and  fair  to  behold, 

Joy  in  the  distance  was  timidly  singing. 

Clear  dawned  the  morning  in  purple  and  gold. 

But,  ah,  chilling  clouds  heavy  shadows  have  brought. 
Shrouded  in  death  the  sweet  hopes  of  a  day. 

Hushed  is  the  song  whose  far  echo  I  caught, 

Vanished  the  light  that  had  gleamed  on  my  way. 

[114] 


EASTER. 

AV/ITHIN  kind  Joseph's  new  made  tomb 

^^       The  form  of  Jesus  lay, 
His  anguished,  broken-hearted  friends 
Were  gone  in  tears  away. 

The  lonely,  rocky,  silent  tomb. 

Closed  with  the  heavy  stone — 
Within,  the  weary  form  at  rest. 

The  patient  spirit  gone. 

They  thought  of  all  his  heavenly  deeds 

Among  the  sons  of  men ; 
Oh,  can  it  be  that  blessed  friend 

They  ne'er  shall  see  again? 

What  were  those  words  he  spake,  so  strange. 

Of  rising  from  the  dead? 
"Could  such  things  be?"  they  whispered  round. 

With  mingled  hope  and  dread. 

[1151 


116  Easter. 

Two  sleepless  nights  had  passed  away, 
The  third  day  now  drew  nigh ; 

The  stars  were  fading  in  the  light, 
Day  tinged  the  eastern  sky, 

When  Mary  came  unto  the  grave 
With  tear-stained,  pallid  face, 

And  lo,  the  stone  was  rolled  away ! 
An  angel  in  its  place ! 

His  face  was  dazzling  as  the  sun, 
His  raiment  white  as  snow, 

She  hid  her  face  within  her  hands. 
And,  trembling,  turned  to  go. 

But  with  a  voice  so  sweet  and  kind, 
"Fear  not,"  he  gently  said: 

"He  is  not  here;  why  should  you  seek, 
The  living  with  the  dead?" 

And  as  she  ran  in  haste  and  joy 
The  wondrous  news  to  tell, 

Lo,  Jesus  met  her  in  the  way, 
The  Lord  she  loved  so  well. 


Easter.  117 

Oh,  blessed  and  first  Easter  day! 

And,  day  almost  as  fair, 
When  those  we  love  whom  Christ  has  called 

Shall  meet  us  over  there ! 

West  Haven,  1882, 


TO  MAY. 

lY /f  GST  sweet,  charming  time  in  the  march  of  the 
^^  ^  seasons, 

In  the  long  year  of  life  it  is  surely  the  same ; 
And  these,   I   suppose,   my  young  friend,   are   the 
reasons 

It  was  given  to  you  as  your  most  fitting  name ! 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  SONG. 


0  PIRIT  of  beauty,  poesy  and  song, 

How  have  I  wandered  from  thy  reach  so  long? 
Where  are  the  days,  when,  on  thy  lifted  wings, 

1  soared  above  all  earth's  inglorious  things, 
From  gloom  and  grief,  regret  and  brooding  care, 
Into  a  purer,  a  "diviner  air?" 


Now  like  some  wretch  behind  his  cruel  bars, 
I  catch  no  glimpse  of  heaven's  sun  or  stars, 
To  my  dark  soul  no  inspirations  come. 
My  eyes  are  blinded  and  my  lips  are  dumb. 
And  tho'  I've  found  that  sought-for  stone  of  old 
That  daily  transmutes  brain  and  nerve  to  gold. 

Must  I  give  all  e'en  for  this  magic  stone, 

And  learn  to  live  on  bread — or  husks — alone? 

Strike  off  my  fetters !    Clear  my  earth-dulled  sight. 

And  lift  my  face  to  the  celestial  light ! 

O,  give  me  back  the  joy  of  vanished  years — 

The  voice,  though  weak  and  often  full  of  tears, 

[118] 


The  Spirit  if  Song.  119 

That  made  no  discord  in  that  heavenly  strain, 

Which  thou  didst  teach  me,  in  the  glad  refrain 

Earth  sends  abroad  on  waves  of  melody 

To  join  the  grand  celestial  harmony — 

That  breath  of  life   I've  missed  and  mourned   so 

long;— 
Sweet  spirit,  give  me  back  the  gift  of  song ! 

Washington,  188J^. 


WITH  A  BUNCH  OF  ROSES. 

IF  ''like  unto  like"  be  the  law  everywhere, 
■■'     (And  philosophers  say  it  is  true) ; 
If  "sweets  to  the  sweet"  and  flowers  for  the  fair, 
These  roses  bloomed,  surely,  for  you ! 


TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND. 

'\Y  7HEN  Nature  with  her  wondrous  brush 

Has  tinted  with  their  rosy  flush 
The  clouds  at  sunset  overhead 
And  painted  all  the  roses  red, 
"Tell  me,"  she  cries,  "what  else  to  do 
With  this,  my  fairest,  brightest  hue? 
What  other  lovely  thing  shall  I 
Match  with  the  roses  and  the  sky?" 
Thus  for  a  moment  softly  speaks. 
Then  lays  her  color  on  your  cheeks. 


[120] 


TO  MRS.  AUGUSTUS  JORDAN. 

ON  HER   SEVENTIETH   BIRTHDAY. 

r^RlEND  of  the  youthful  heart  and  silvery  hair, 
"■■        How  shall  I  greet  thee  on  this  golden  day? 
What  form  of  speech  shall  my  glad  welcome  bear? 
How  put  in  words  the  thing  I  fain  would  say? 

Thou  of  the  cheery  heart  and  merry  tongue, 
Thy  secret  first — come,  tell  us  truly,  whether 

These  charms  beguiled  old  Time  to  keep  thee  young 
Thro'  all  these  years  that  ye  have  walked  together  ? 

Tell  us,  O  pilgrim  with  the  placid  brow. 

How  looks  life's  path  from  heights  that  thou  hast 
gained? 
Like  Christian's  burdens  are  thine  fallen  now? 
Forgotten,   thorns   that   pierced   and   griefs   that 
pained? 

[121] 


122  To  Mrs.  Augustus  Jordan. 

As  down  the  vista  of  the  long,  long  years 
Thine  eyes  look  back,  O  tell  us,  dost  thou  see 

Still  the  deep  graves  all  wet  with  bitter  tears 
Where  pale-faced  Grief  kept  thy  sad  company? 

Tell  us,  O  friend  of  seventy  summers  gone, 
That  all  dark  spots  in  these  poor  lives  of  ours 

Are  left  behind  us  as  we  journey  on, 

Grown  green  with  verdure,  overrun  with  flowers. 

And  tell  us,  friend  in  years  and  love  grown  wise. 
Life's  choicest  blessings  come  to  us  at  last, 

Its  chastenings  seen  as  mercies  in  disguise. 
Its  hardest  storms  all  safely  overpast. 

Dear  fellow  traveler,  going  on  before, 
Tell  us  who  follow  in  life's  devious  way, 

The  same  long  path  thy  feet  have  journeyed  o'er 
Will  lead  us  safely  to  as  fair  a  day ! 

Washington,  January  31^  1886. 


TO  MAY  BELLE  CHIPP. 

ON  HER  WEDDING  DAY. 

V/OUR  wedding  day,  bright  May, 
•■•     Your  wedding  day ! 
What  shall  I  sing  or  say,  sweet  May, 
That  will  portray 

The  many  thoughts  that  swell, 
The  hopes  that  would  foretell 
The  joys  that  in  the  mystic  future  stay. 
For  you,  dear  May? 

Your  lovely  face,  fair  May, 
Your  girlhood  grace. 
Time  may,  alas,  erase,  dear  May: 
He  does  efface 

The  loveliest  things  that  live ; 

Yet  may  he  ever  give 
All  better  things  that  we  could  wish  or  pray 
For  you,  sweet  May. 

[123] 


124  To  May  Belle  Chipp. 

The  loyal  heart,  dear  May, 

The  better  part. 

No  outward  grace  or  art,  sweet  May, 

Can  counterpart; 

The  love  and  truth  and  faith 

That  outlive  even  death — 
Be  these  the  precious  things  that  ever  stay 
With  you,  bright   May. 

And  all  we  crave,  sweet  May, 

Young  hearts  would  have : 

The  best  that  earth  e'er  gave,  bright  May, 

May  kind  Fate  save 

And  shower  upon  your  path 

The  fairest  things  she  hath : 
Till  like  this  happy,  cloudless,  summer  day 
Your  life,  dear  May. 

Your  wedding  day,  bright  May, 

Your  wedding  day ! 

God  bless  you  and  the  day,  sweet  May! 

Your  fair  hair  gray 

May  you  look  back  to  this 
Bright  day  of  youth  and  bliss. 

And  find  that  long,  long  years  did  not  betray 
Its  hopes,  sweet  May ! 


LIFE  AND  DEATH. 

After  a  long  and  serious  illness  from  typhoid  fever,  Mr. 
Levi  Bacon,  one  of  the  most  popular  officials  of  Vte  Interior 
Department,  returned  to  his  desk  and  met  with  a  hearty  wel- 
come and  numeroiis  congratulations  from  both  the  gentlemen 
and  ladies  of  the  DepartmenL  One  of  the  latter  expressed 
the  universal  sentiment  in  the  following  greeting. 

—Washington  Capitai. 

D  ESIDE  a  couch  pale  Love,  untired, 
^~^     Watched  many  a  weary  day. 
And  Hope  and  Fear  together  saw 

The  long  hours  creep  away ; 
With  Pain  and  Patience,  pale-faced  guests. 

Peace  could  no  longer  dwell. 
And  troubled  Thought  in  Fever's  grasp 

No  more  her  wants  might  tell. 

To  this  sick-bed  and  this  sad  group. 

Two  bright-faced  angels  came. 
And  one  was  strong  and  still  and  pale. 

And  Azrael  was  his  name ; 
His  face  shone  as  the  moonlight  shines. 

With  purest  peace  profound. 
And,  like  a  garment,  majesty 

Encompassed  him  around; 

[125J 


126  Life  and  Death. 

The  other,  keen,  clear-eyed,  with  Hfe 

And  light  upon  his  brow. 
But  meekly  did  his  stately  head 

In  silent  reverence  bow 
When  Azrael,  calm,  commanding,  came 

With  gentle,  noiseless  feet, 
While  fell  on  all  a  breathless  hush — 

For  Life  and  Death  did  meet. 

Then  Azrael  spake,  and  with  the  words, 

Across  his  heavenly  face 
A  look  of  love  and  pity  swept 

That  lighted  up  the  place ; 
"I  come  to  break  the  cruel  chains 

Laid  on  this  suffering  soul, 
And  from  his  worn  and  weary  frame 

Your  heavy  burdens  roll. 

"His  hair  has  whitened  in  your  cause. 

His  eyes  grown  dim  with  tears, 
Your  stern  behests  he  patiently 

Has  followed  all  these  years. 
Content  in  slavery,  it  may  be, 

But  once  I  loose  his  chain 
Think  you  he  would  return  to  what 

Mortals  call  life  again? 


Life  and  Death.  127 

"I  come  to  burst  his  prison  doors, 

I  come  to  set  him  free, 
To  tear  earth's  bandage  from  his  eyes 

And  bid  him  truly  see ; 
To  lift  him  from  this  bed  of  pain, 

To  end  the  weary  strife, 
I  come  to  give  him  health  and  strength 

And  never-ending  life. 

"O !  fools  and  blind,  these  men  of  earth. 

That  hug  their  house  of  clay. 
Unknowing  to  what  heavenly  heights 

My  hand  can  lead  the  way ! 
Angel  of  Life,  that  dost  beguile 

These  helpless  sons  of  men. 
Why  should  I  to  thy  service  give 

This  passing  soul  again?" 

And  Life  bent  low;  he  had  few  words 

To  answer,  but  his  plea 
Was  earnest,  tender,  passionate. 

To  change  Death's  dread  decree  : 
"O,  brother  mine,  most  wise,"  he  cried, 

"If  it  indeed  be  true 
That  mortals  live  in  deeds,  not  years, 

The  good  that  they  can  do, 


128  Life  and  Death. 

"I  grant  thee  this  beloved  son 
Has  reached  earth's  longest  span, 
P'or  he  has  lived  alone  to  help 

And  bless  his  fellow  man. 
His  eyes  are  dim,  but  'tis  with  tears 

Of  others  made  his  own ; 
The  lowliest  may  call  him  friend. 

And  meet  no  grief  alone. 

"The  snow  upon  his  brow  is  not 

What  Time  alone  has  shed. 
It  is  the  bloom  of  blessings  showered 

Upon  his  gracious  head. 
Kind  thoughts  look  ever  from  his  eyes, 

Kind  words  dwell  on  his  tongue. 
And  if  it  be  the  heart  that  keeps 

The  spirit  ever  young, 

"Then  his,  so  full  of  love  for  all. 

Of  childlike  faith  and  truth. 
Will  bless  him  with  the  summer  time 

Of  a  perpetual  youth. 
In  thy  bright  realms,  thou  canst  not  lack 

These  souls  of  heavenly  birth,  ' 

But  not  too  many  find  their  way 

To  this  dull,  selfish  earth. 


Life  and  Death.  129 

"In  pity,  then,  return  in  peace 

To  thy  fair  land  again, 
;\nd  leave  this  gracious  life  to  bless 

And  cheer  his  fellow  men." 
And  Azrael,  smiling,  left  the  couch 

Where  Love  bent  low  to  pray — 
And  thus  it  is  we  greet  with  joy, 

Dear  friend,  this  happy  day! 

Washington,  1886. 


A  WINTER  BLOSSOM. 

¥    ITTLE  Helen,  winter's  blossom, 

Coming  with  the  snow. 
Surely  'tis  in  summer  only 

Such  sweet  flowers  should  blow; 
When  the  lilies  and  the  roses 

Find  their  mortal  birth, 
Then  should  children,  like  the  flowers. 

Come  to  gladden  earth. 

But  thy  snow-white  guardian  angels 

Chose  to  send  thee,  dear, 
On  the  first  and  happy  morning 

Of  a  glad  New  Year, — 
Fragile  little  human  snow-drop 

Falling  from  the  skies. 
Their  rosy  flush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Their  blue  within  thine  eyes. 

[130] 


A  Winter  Blossom.  131 

Pure  and  fair  forever,  darling, 

As  thy  native  snow. 
On  through  summers  and  through  winters 

Mayst  thou  gladly  go ! 
Hearts  and  home  to  bless  and  brighten. 

Sorrowing  lives  to  cheer, 
And  to  all  who  love  thee  bringing 

Many  a  glad  New  Year! 


LOVE'S  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

To    JUSTICE    AND    MRS.    L.    Q.    C.    LAMAR. 

IN  those  Mountains  of  Delight 

Known  in  life  as  Love  and  Youth, 
On  the  hills  of  that  sweet  Far-away, 
Where  are  visions  ever  bright, 
And  their  fairest  dreams  are  truth, 
On  whose  soft  enchanted  air 
Never  falls  the  shade  of  care. 
From  whose  fountains'  crystal  draught 
Nectar  of  the  gods  is  quaffed, 
Where  the  roses  ever  bloom. 
Night  and  winter  never  come. 
But  all  blithe,  and  glad,  and  gay. 
Youthful  feet  forever  stray 
In  the  dawn  of  one  long 
And  unclouded  summer  day, — 

In  that  land  of  Long  Ago, 

In  the  golden  summer  weather. 

Two  bright  streams  meet  and  laugh  in  the  sun ; 

[132] 


Love's  Indian  Summer.  133 

And  they  sparkle  as  they  flow, 
And  they  murmur  on  together 
Amid  apple  blooms  and  flowers 
And  the  leafy,  verdant  bowers. 
Through  the  daisies  and  the  dew. 
Under  skies  of  heavenly  blue. 
While  the  birds  on  every  spray 
Sing  the  golden  hours  away; 
They  are  dancing  as  they  run, 
And  they  sparkle  in  the  sun. 
And  they  meet  and  they  greet, 
As  they  seem  to  melt  in  one. 

'Tis  a  pebble  or  a  straw 

That  has  turned  their  course  aside. 

As  they  flow  all  aglow  in  the  sun ; 

And  this  slight  dividing  flaw, 

Lo,  it  parts  them  far  and  wide 

As  o'er  crag  or  through  morass 

Or  the  waving  meadow  grass, 

Fanned  by  zephyrs,  strewn  with  flowers. 

Swept  by  sudden  gusts  and  showers. 

On  they  flow  through  miles  of  years ; 

And  they  scatter  drops  like  tears. 


134  Love's  Indian  Summer. 

Or  they  sparkle  in  the  sun, 
But,  ah,  never  more  as  one 
Do  they  meet,  do  they  greet, 
As  they  travel,  travel  on. 

There's  a  vale  that  lies  midway 

'Twixt  those  mountains  and  the  sea. 

And  its  charms  dwellers  there  only  know. 

But  its  happy  people  say — 

Howsoever  strange  it  be — 

That  those  Mountains  of  Delight 

Have  no  visions  half  so  bright, 

That  the  harmony  profound 

Knows  not  jarring  breath  nor  sound. 

While  a  sweet  and  dreamy  haze 

Fills  the  Indian  Summer  days 

With  the  glory  and  the  glow 

Of  the  golden  Long  Ago, 

And  a  peace  that  doth  increase 

With  the  glad  years'  happy  flow. 

To  this  valley  still  and  sweet. 

With  its  golden  vintage  crowned. 

Flow  those  streams  from  the  uplands  so  fair; 


Love's  Indian  Summer.  135 

Here  their  placid  waters  meet, 
Here  their  resting  place  is  found ; 
Each  unto  the  other  brings 
Wealth  of  all  its  wanderings, 
And  upon  the  brimming  tide 
Freighted  barks  in  safety  glide ; 
Precious  fabrics  of  the  years. 
Diamond  gems  that  gleam  like  tears. 
Costly  treasures  rich  and  rare, 
Their  united  waters  bear. 
As  they  flow  in  the  glow 
Of  the  peaceful  autumn  air. 

'Round  this  calm,  serene  retreat, 
Open  only  to  the  sky. 
Purple  peaks,  veiled  in  mist,  silent  stand; 
On  their  slopes  the  golden  wheat 
And  the  fragrant  vineyards  lie ; 
Echoing  o'er  hill  and  dell 
Sounds  the  mellow  vesper  bell, 
Lighted  by  the  evening  star 
Youth's  fair  Mountains  shine  afar — 
Cloud-kissed  their  highest  eastern  hill. 
But  here  the  heavens  bend  lower  still, 


136  Love's  Indian  Summer. 

And  to  those  who,  hand  in  hand, 
By  the  radiant  arch  are  spanned. 
There  is  given  foretaste  of  Heaven, 
In  this  its  gate  and  border-land. 

Washington,  January,  1887. 


A  SOLILOQUY. 

UPON  RECEIVING  A  VERY  YOUNG  LADY'S  CARD. 

A   ND  who  is  this,  I'd  Hke  to  know — this  Eleanora 
^         Lord? 

A  regal,  lordly  title,  too,  it  is,  upon  my  word. 
No  dainty  Httle  damsel,  she,  or  fairy  sprite,  I  ween ; 
The  very  name  would  indicate   a  grand,  majestic 

mien ; 
The   lady  of  some   lordly  knight;    some   old-time, 

vanished  queen. 
Yet  on   my  recognition  she   would  seem  to  make 

some  claim, 
And  with  condescending  graciousness  she  sends  to 

me  her  name. 
With  a  strange  air  of  dignity  her  card  comes  to  my 

door; 
And  yet  not  strange.     I  have  it  now !     She  has  been 

here  before ! 

[137] 


138  A  Soliloquy. 

Lived  as  some  high-born  dame  perchance,  or  queen 

of  old  renown; 
Her  card  is  now  her  sceptre,  and  her  name  her  regal 

crown. 
Depend  upon  it  she's  lived  here  in  some  form  or 

another ; 
Perhaps    she's    my — or,    stranger    yet,    her    own — 

great-great-grandmother ! 
It  makes  me  feel  so  young  and  queer — why,  I'm  a 

child  beside  her ! 
Dear  me !     I  must  be  careful  in  no  way  to  wound 

her  pride,  or 
Be  slow  to  send  my  greeting  for  this  unexpected 

honor. 
For  she'll  not  brook,  you  may  be  sure,  the  least 

slight  put  upon  her. 
And  when  I  meet  her  I  must  guard  my  every  look 

and  word, 
And  with  old-time  sweeping  curtsy  greet — Eleanora 

Lord ! 

Washington,  March,  1889. 


TO  MRS.  RHODES.* 

A  CROSS  your  portal,  O  my  friend  unknown, 
^    *•  My  wandering  feet  unwitting  have  strayed, 
And  as  I  paused,  reluctant  and  afraid, 
Lo,  every  thing  about  me  seemed  my  own ! 
The  plants  and  pictures,  atmosphere  and  tone. 
And  artist  touch,  to- you  just  tribute  paid. 
Yet  all,  familiar,  for  my  use  seemed  made. 
And  you,  I  pray,  this  trespass  will  condone ; 
For  as  the  traveller  who  no  more  would  roam. 
In  dreams  comes  back  to  kindred  and  to  home, 
So  I,  a  stranger  in  your  golden  land, 
Not  having  seen  your  face  or  clasped  your  hand, 
Into  your  home-place  have  thus  wandered  in. 
To  find  myself  at  home,  and  claim  you  kin ! 

San  Francisco,  1903. 


*  Arriving  in  San  Francisco  from  the  Yosemite  Val- 
ley a  day  or  two  sooner  than  expected,  the  rooms 
reserved  for  us  at  the  Hotel  Colonial  were  not  avail- 
able, and  the  proprietor  kindly  accommodated  mother 
in  a  very  pretty  and  homelike  room  belong-ing  to  a 
permanent  guest  of  the  hotel,  who  happened  to  be 
absent.  Upon  leaving  these  cosy  quarters,  mother  left 
this  sonnet  for  her  unknown  hostess. — C.  H.  B. 


[139] 


TO  GALEN  CLARK.* 

ON   HIS    NINETIETH    BIRTHDAY. 

/^    FRIENDS,  how  shall  we  greet  this  friend  of 
^^    ■     ours  ? 

How  fitly  celebrate  this  golden  day? 
We  need  the  brimming  cup  enwreathed  with  flowers, 

And  garlands  green  of  laurel  and  of  bay! 

For  who  that  comes  to  four-score  years  and  ten 
With  tireless  zeal  can  still  his  powers  employ, 

Moving  alert  among  his  fellow  men. 

With  mind  of  sage  and  spirit  of  a  boy? 

And  though  he  has  already  richly  won 

More  honors  than  his  gentle  soul  would  claim, 

At  ninety  has  a  new  career  begun 

That  adds  the  title  "Author"  to  his  name. 

[140] 


To  Galen  Clark.  141 

The  vital  life  that  speaks  through  tongue  and  pen, 
The  soul  serene,  aglow  with  love  and  truth. 

The  modest  worth,  that  asks  not  praise  of  men, — 
All  these  shall  crown  him  with  eternal  youth. 

Thrice  honored  friend,  we  have  no  words  to  speak 
All  that  our  hearts  with  love  and  pride  would  say ; 

We  only  know,  a  white,  white  stone  we  seek. 
To  mark  this  most  unique,  auspicious  day ! 

San  Francisco,  March  28,  190^. 


*  Read  at  a  gathering  of  Mr.  Clark's  friends  at  the 
residence  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chris.  Jorgensen,  in  San 
Francisco,  to  celebrate  his  ninetieth  birthday  and  the 
publication  of  his  book  on  the  "Indians  of  the  Yosem- 
ite."— C.  H.  B. 


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